


Dreams of Spring

by librarysquatter



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure & Romance, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fix-It, Not Rated so make of that what you will, Romance, Season 8 in my headcannon, Season/Series 08, Sexual Content, Smut, Which I guess means..., script doctoring
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2020-10-10 06:20:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 48
Words: 278,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20523359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/librarysquatter/pseuds/librarysquatter
Summary: I have to blame professional television show runners and their failure to wrap up a TV series for me trying my own hand at it - and fan fiction.I started my first fan fiction ever right after GOT wrapped up in May 2019, after years of concentrating on original fiction. That resulted in my first piece, The Reunion of the Pack (check my profile for that). It was an epilogue for the series that managed to resolve most of the horrific issues with season 8 after the fact. However, I felt like a whole redo of the season like I saw other writers doing was needed.This is going to be a straight redo of Season 8. There is a mix of television and book material here, and a limited amount of retconning (I won’t be able to totally fix the Dorne storyline), plus a sprinkling of original characters I think fit into the world of Westeros and Essos.What you’ll find: Action, romance, humor, and  an eventual ending that feels right.What you’ll hopefully not find: an illogical plot or characters acting in ways that don’t make sense.I hope you enjoy the ride.





	1. White Harbor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon, Daenerys, and the Queen’s army reach the North as the forces of the living prepare to face the Army Of The Dead. 

1\. 

**Daenerys **

“Your Grace?”

Daenerys Stormborn’s violet eyes fluttered as she awoke on the captain’s cabin of her ship. She was still in bed, wearing the white shift she had gone to sleep in the previous evening. “It’s morning?”

“Yes, my Queen, the sun rose perhaps an hour ago.” Missandei was opening the curtains covering the windows of the cabin, then opened one of the windows by a crack to get a sliver of sea air circulating in the room. Only a crack was needed, as the temperatures had dropped noticeably since her fleet had sailed north from Dragonstone. 

She sat up in bed, doing her best to finger-comb her silver hair out while gathering the sheets around her. “I suppose I need to get ready for the day, then. We’re to make landfall today, are we not?”

Missandei nodded. “J… Lord Snow, he said he expected us to get to White Harbor by around midday. I’ll bring breakfast in to you and we’ll get your hair back in order.”

The two women and confidants shared a look at the mention of the King Of The North. They had been discreet as possible on board, but Missandei, as her closest female adviser and one who looked after her daily needs, had intuited what was happening soon after it started. 

“Thank you. Where…?”

“He’s up on deck, I believe.” She broke eye contact with her by starting at the floor. “I’ll bring that food in, Your Grace.”

“Thank you,” she replied as her friend departed the room. A few moments later, she heard a knock on the outside of the doorway. “Yes?”

“Your favored advisor wishes for an audience with his Queen,” a smooth and eloquent voice called out.

She raised an eyebrow at the description and made sure the sheets and blankets were arranged around her properly. “Lord Tyrion, come in.”

The Hand of The Queen strolled into the room. Along with his normal wear, he sported a black and red wool cloak to ward off the morning cold, and cradled a steaming mug of hot liquid in both hands. “No wine this morning?” the queen inquired sardonically. 

“It’s not the best tea I’ve ever had,” Tyrion said, “but it does keep away the cold. However, I have heard that some in the North who raise grapes make a wine that is supposed to be served _ warmed_. I’ll have to look into that if we stay for long here…”

“You had a message for me, My Lord?”

Tyrion caught himself. “Yes. I was hoping to catch you alone for a moment. It’s been difficult to do that during the past several days… and several nights, in fact.”

Her mood darkened as she realized that he knew about Jon. “And how is that your business, Tyrion?” she said as she narrowed her eyes at him. 

“For most men and women, it would not be,” he replied as he came closer to the bed. “But since who you fall in love with could make or break your chances of successfully ruling Westeros, it _ is _absolutely my business as your Hand.”

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes as she collected herself. “I see your point.”

He took a sip from his mug as he contemplated the situation. “What are your feelings towards him? Are you in love with him? Is he?” When she could no longer meet his eyes, he sighed. “Oh, my. He’s proposed to you, has he?”

“Not in those words, not yet,” she finally said. “But he said he wants to be with me, now and when we go to his home.”

“I appreciate your efforts to try to keep your… _ affections _ hidden from others. You will need to continue it for the time being, especially with these Northerners. We have to be very careful in our relations with them.”

“I’m the rightful ruler of Westeros, and I have two dragons and an army at my back,” she said. “I would think _ they _ need to be careful in their relations with _ me _.”

“Hm. Yes, but…” He trailed off, holding up a finger. “You remember one of our first talks after we met, about how you need the consent of the governed to properly rule. I think the example of Dragon’s Bay is useful in this regard.” He turned to look at Daenerys, who held up both her hands, palms upward, in a “go-ahead” gesture. 

“To properly secure your rule, you need the support of the nobles and powerful and the support of the common folk. You remember how we finally… _ persuaded _ the nobles and slavers to reform their ways and join your cause. Compared to that, the common folk there were easy to bring to your side. You promised them greater freedoms and release from their bondage if they accepted you as Queen.”

“I would offer the North that same freedom, for the tyranny of your sister in King’s Landing,” she replied. “I would do no less than them and care for them as my other subjects.”

“And you would be an improvement upon my sister as a monarch many times over, yes,” he replied, nodding. “But this issue of freedom, that is the crux of our problem in the North.”

“The North doesn’t love freedom like other people?” the Queen said with a laugh. 

“They _ do_,” Tyrion said. “The issue is, the North _ already _ believe themselves to be free - a free and independent nation. They elected first Jon’s brother Robb, and then Jon, as king of an independent North. They certainly despise Cersei and would be willing to fight her, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that they feel the need to subjugate themselves to you to do that. If you come with offers of liberation, they will wonder what you plan to truly do to them, because liberty is what they already have. Both the nobles and the common folk believe this.”

“I’m the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, and that includes the North,” she said, resolute. 

“You gained that right through your father, who wrongfully executed a Warden of the North and his son for no righteous reason. The North, indeed, remembers. To gain their trust, it will have to be in a different fashion from Dragon’s Bay.”

The mention of The Mad King irritated her - hadn’t she proven before that she was not her father’s daughter? _ These people are new to me, _ she thought. _ I will have to win them over anew_. “How would you go about that?” she asked. 

“First, I would concentrate on what you _ are _ able to offer the North. You are eager to defend them from the Army Of The Dead, something that they would likely not be able to do on their own. In exchange, you are asking their support for your rule on the Iron Throne. And in doing that, you are helping the North get justice for the deaths of Lord Stark, his wife, and their son. That is something they value that they do _ not _ have yet.”

“That would be good to emphasize. Do you have any other suggestions?”

“Certainly, Lord Snow will have to publicly bend the knee to you,” Tyrion said. “He has already agreed to this. But, perhaps we could… phrase this action in a way that would make it seem less objectionable to the northerners?”

Daenerys could tell that her Hand was about to try and do something he considered extremely clever, and found herself grinning in spite of herself. “What sort of… _ phrase _ would be less objectionable to these northerners?”

“Why would Jon have to stop calling himself a king if he bent the knee to you? Could he not pledge his loyalty in securing your crown and become a… vassal king, so to speak? He could follow Your Grace’s lead in foreign affairs and alliances, while having the freedom to manage the internal affairs of the North without interference from you in King’s Landing. Was that not the same relationship the Wardens of Westeros had with the crown, except under a different name? Yet, a name might mean more to the North, have more symbolism to it, than we might expect.”

The queen’s eyes flew open in surprise at that, then her brow furrowed. _ Kings ruling Queens and Queens ruling Kings, _ she thought. “With the Iron Islands and now the North, it seems like everyone wants to be free to chart their own course.”

“As you said to me, they can ask all they want, but you can say yes or no. More importantly, you can dictate what ‘yes’ means to you.”

“With all of the kings and queens around, the smallfolk might become plenty confused,” Daenerys said with more than a heap of skepticism.

“Then perhaps we need a new… title for Your Grace that indicates who is the preeminent power in Westeros. Daenerys Stormborn… High Queen of Westeros.”

“_High Queen of Westeros_,” the queen said. She shook her head in disbelief, finally rising from her bed to put on a robe hanging from the corner of her bed. “I swear, Tyrion, I sometimes think you _ believe _ you could sell fish to the Ironborn and wheat to the Reach.”

“I have learned that, especially regarding nobility, that the _ appearance _ of something is just as important, or even more important in some instances, than its _ substance_. This is especially the case when honor is involved,” he added, sipping his tea for emphasis.

She came to stand beside her Hand. “As something to consider,” she said, “if – _ if _ – I and Jon were to marry, how might that affect matters?”

Tyrion shrugged. “In some ways, it might simplify things. It would make more sense to let Jon have a free hand in the North if he was your husband. On the other hand, they might suspect you were trying to have undue influence over them through marriage.” He sighed after he finished his mug. “That’s one of the reasons I think we need to keep both the status of the King Of The North, and your relationship to him, quiet until we can consider the best way of presenting things. For one thing, the dead are the higher priority for now.”

Daenerys was still unsettled as she sat down in a padded chair to wait for Missandei. “We will have to let the Northern lords in on the new shape of things soon enough.”

“This is true. It is also true that there are times when clarity is called for, and times when vagueness is called for even more.” Tyrion paused at the door. “Your Grace, I will leave you to prepare for the day.”

Tyrion left the queen alone with her own thoughts. _ It is true that these are different people than those of Dragons’ Bay. __I want them to love me as the others… but that might not be possible. I hope Jon will be able to be the bridge between us_.

#

Now fully dressed and ready for the winter winds with an ankle-length white fur coat with red trim and knee-high boots of the same color and construction, Daenerys walked onto the main deck as sailors scrambled to their posts. It was off the front port side railing of the ship that she saw the King Of The North staring at the approaching land.

As he heard her footsteps behind him, Jon looked behind him. “Your Grace,” he said with a small but polite smile. He was making every effort not to let on at any sort of deeper relationship with the Dragon Queen other than trusted ally.

“Your Grace,” she responded, as she came to a stop next to him to gaze at what had Jon’s attention.

The city rose over the horizon, a creation in white appropriate for the Northern country. A two-section harbor extended away from the city, surrounded by high white stone walls. She could see buildings packed inside the walls, and at least two castles inside. “My first glimpse of the North. Quite auspicious.”

“White Harbor,” Jon said with a nod. “Easily the biggest settlement in the North, and the biggest port. It’s also directly south from Winterfell, which means it will be farther away from the big fight when it happens.”

“Which should help with what we are planning,” Daenerys said. “Will House… Manderly agree to our request?”

Jon nodded. “Centuries ago the Starks gave House Manderly shelter in the North after they were expelled from the Reach, and now they have the most prosperous settlement in the entire North. They have been allies ever since.”

“Sounds promising.”

#

Jon and Daenerys were greeted on the docks of White Harbor by the old Lord Wyman Manderly himself, lolling up to the couple and bending the knee before them. “Your Graces, welcome to White Harbor.”

“Thank you Lord Manderly,” the queen said as she tried not to acknowledge the lord’s difficulties in getting back to his feet. “This is my first time in the North, much less White Harbor. But, I understand my ancestor Aegon I came here after he was crowned king and held court here.”

“Indeed, Your Grace, as did more than a couple of his descendants,” Lord Manderley said as he gestured to the twosome to follow him down the dock and through the Seal Gate up to the New Castle.

“I am sorry I will not have more time to visit your wonderful city, but the Army of the Dead requires us to make haste toward Winterfell.”

“Very well, then,” Lord Manderly said, acknowledging his trust in them with a nod. “The Wall won’t be able to keep these creatures out, then?”

“We don’t know yet if the Wall is secure,” Jon said. “We are sending ravens to Castle Black and Eastwatch to see, but… the Wall is by no means impregnable. The Freefolk can easily scale the Wall with ropes and spikes if needed - I even did that myself. I was there when the Freefolk attacked Castle Black and they nearly carried the day. Now there may only be a couple hundred brothers of the Watch at best, manning only three castles, trying to defend against an enemy that needs no rest and has no heart to lose. We have to assume we have no time to waste to carry out our plan to protect the North.”

Lord Manderly gazed behind them as he heard a rumbling growl from the sea. Dany’s children were flying around in circles just outside the bay, looking for a place outside the city walls to lie down and rest. Then he searched the docks to see hundreds of Dothraki bloodriders and Unsullied spearmen disembarking from Targaryen ships.

“Well, our king said he planned to bring an army to help us, and he did not disappoint.” The old lord stopped, turned and bowed to Daenerys. “I thank you for coming here and providing protection to both my people and our neighbors. Anything my house and this city can do to assist you, you have but to name it.”

“You will play an important role in the defense of the North,” Jon insisted. “If we can go to the New Castle, we can show you what we mean.”  
  


#  
  


Jon, Daenerys, Lord Manderly, and many of their closest advisors gathered in Merman’s Court, the main hall of the New Castle. There, they looked over a map of all of Westeros that covered a long banquet table littered with cyvasse pieces and stones representing various forces throughout Westeros.

“Essentially, there will be two major movements of people in the North,” Jon began. “First, we will concentrate all of our main military forces at Winterfell. Not only our experienced soldiers, but any man or woman who is capable of bearing arms. Queen Daenerys and her army will accompany us there, along with the dragonglass from Dragonstone that can be used to kill the White Walkers and wights, to further concentrate our forces.

“Most of the crannogmen will stay in the Neck,” Jon continued, “They will make preparations on both sides of the Neck to both guard against any of the dead headed south and keep out any unfriendly forces from surprising us from the south.”

“We’re expecting friendly forces from the south?” Manderly said.

“The Knights of the Vale will send more forces under the command of Lord Royce, and Cersei Lannister says that she will provide forces as well,” Jon said.

“Whether her word is any good or not, and I have much doubt of it, there are her former bannermen in the Westerlands and Reach who have bent the knee to me,” Daenerys said. “They are too few to make a significant impact on our fighting numbers, but they can hold those areas for us and send North what food and supplies they can spare. Our cities in Dragon’s Bay are also sending any food and supplies they can spare to both White Harbor and Dragonstone. We bring the first of those shipments to your port now.”

“Anything we can get would be helpful,” Manderly said to the queen. “The maesters say this will be a harsh winter, and any extra morsels of food would be welcomed, Army of the Dead or not.”

“Here is the second part of the plan,” Jon said, pointing to White Harbor. “All of those too young, old, or infirm to fight will be sent to White Harbor. We will put them on the ships now unloading our army and have them evacuate temporarily to Dragonstone for their protection.”

“A garrison of my army now occupies Dragonstone and can protect them from any threat from Cersei or her pet Greyjoy,” Daenerys said. “They would be our guests, and I would ensure their care until the battle against the dead are over.”

“Will there be enough space for everyone there?” The group turned to see Brienne of Tarth standing with Jon and Daenerys’ advisors. “I could ask my father if we could not also make room on Tarth for the people. Our island would have more space if needed.”

“Thank you for your offer,” Daenerys said, “but Dragonstone will be the most easily defended of the two locations and we are hoping that this will only be a temporary refuge. It might be a good idea to contact your father and see if he would be open to taking on more people later if needed, however.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Brienne said.

Manderly bowed briefly down to the queen. “You are most generous with your hospitality, Your Grace. I thank you, for my grandchildren and others.”

“There is a practical reason for our plan as well,” Jon said. “Any person killed by the White Walkers or their wights can become one of them. Even children and the old can be dangerous if raised by the Night King’s magic. We would look to prevent the Night King from adding any further to his army.

“We would ask you keep a sufficient force here at White Harbor so that the walls could be defended against an attack by the dead, a rear guard,” Jon said. “Hopefully, it won’t come to that, and we stop them at Winterfell.”

Manderly nodded. “I’ll stay here with a rearguard of my more experienced men and send the rest along with you to Winterfell. We’ll be enough to hold off an attack until we can get everyone onto boats and out of the harbor. Are the other Northern lords aware of your plan?”

  
“We’re sending out ravens to the lords at Winterfell and throughout the North right now,” Jon said. “The Queen and I plan to make our way to Winterfell as soon as our ships are unloaded. You can start evacuating the children and old from White Harbor right away. We will also leave you sufficient dragonglass weapons to arm your people here.”

“Again, thank you for your generosity,” Lord Manderly said. “We will begin to get word to the people here to pack up and get to the ships.”

“Of course,” Jon said as they shook hands. “Have them take just food, clothing, and any tools they might have, the rest they’ll need to leave.”

“Understood.”

#

“So, how are the preparations for converting this dragonglass into weapons?” Daenerys said to Jon as they approached a forge nearby the New Castle.

“The smith we’ve had designing weapons is preparing to ship off everything we have to Winterfell to complete the work,” Jon said. “He’s already had the chance to work with some of the dragonglass and see how it can be used. The first ones we'll leave for the Manderlys to help them defend the city.”

Jon stopped before they entered the forge and took the queen by the elbow. “Before we enter, I need to tell you something of this man, the smith.”

#

There was a flurry of activity around and inside the forge. Men and women alike loaded dragonglass in sacks into waiting carts for the trip to Winterfell. Two men were in the middle of the storm of people, directing the wagon traffic and making sure none of the cargo was missing.

Daenerys immediately recognized the older, white-bearded man as Jon’s adviser Ser Davos Seaworth. The other was unfamiliar, tall, powerfully muscled, with black hair cut close to the skull and brilliant blue eyes, a solemn man in his early twenties covered with a touch of soot from the forges. _ This is the man, _she thought.

Davos looked up to see Jon and Daenerys approaching. “Your Grace,” Davos said, addressing the queen directly, “this is Gendry. He’s been getting the dragonglass ready for use.”

Gendry froze for a second at the sight of her, then gave a hesitant nod. “Your Grace,” he half-mumbled.

“King Jon has said you’ve had some experience working with this material,” Daenerys said. “Will it work as a weapon?”

“Good enough,” Gendry said, more clearly this time. “If I could, Your Grace?” She nodded.

Gendry bade them to come into the forge, where he walked behind a table covered with dragonglass in various shapes. “By just striking them, with hammer and chisel, they can easily become daggers, spear points for spears, arrowheads. It’s much harder to forge them, but you can do it with some of the arrowheads. It’s usually faster just to chip them.” He picked up a large cleaver-like dragonglass piece attached to a wooden handle. “They make good axes, and hammers as well.”

The queen had a sudden realization. “The weapons that my Dothraki riders use on horseback, the arakh, can these be made into one of those?”

“Your man Ser Jorah asked me about that,” Gendry said. “It would be too difficult to turn the dragonglass into a long blade, but I’ve come up with something else.” He grabbed an object from the table and held it up for her inspection.

It was a wooden-handled item, reinforced with iron in the center and shaped much like an arakh. Small square chunks of obsidian jutted out from the outside of the “blade” at regular intervals. “Ser Jorah had a few of the Dothraki come by and test them out on some horse carcasses. They seemed to be happy with them. We can make sure each of your riders gets one of these before the time comes.”

“Thank you, Gendry.” She was unsure of how to proceed next with what she had to say. “I know you are busy getting everything ready, but I had a question for you.”

Those words gave both Jon and Davos pause, but they said nothing as she continued. “I understand that Robert Baratheon was your father.”

Gendry was visibly surprised at the question, setting down the arakh and staring down at the table for a moment before finally meeting her eyes. “He was,” he finally said.

“What do you know of him?”

He shrugged at that. “I know he was king. He was supposed to be a great fighter. I also know he took the crown from your father and killed your… brother?” She nodded at that, and there was a long silence before Gendry continued. “That’s all I know. I never met him myself. By the time I learned he was my father, he was already dead.”

“I see,” Daenerys said. “King Jon said that you were one of the ones who joined him Beyond the Wall to capture the Night King’s soldier. He said you were the one that got word to me that he and the others were in trouble.” Gendry nodded silently at that.

“Thank you,” the queen said to a startled Gendry. “If not for you, I don’t know what would have happened to Jon and the others with him. With that, and your work here… You have done me more than one good favor. I won’t forget.”

Gendry allowed himself just the hint of a smile as he visibly relaxed. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

“We should be getting ready for travel and you have to make preparations,” Daenerys said. “Thank you again for meeting me. Ser Davos, good to see you again.” With that, and with few stammered goodbyes from Davos and Gendry, Jon and Daenerys took their leave.

As Jon and Daenerys walked away, she turned to him. “Does anything of him remind you of the father? You met him before, did you not?”

Jon nodded. “Add 20 years and a full beard to him and they would look nearly the same. Gendry has something of the old king’s temper, but he's more… humble.”

“He grew up in... Flea Bottom, you said? I have the feeling that’s not where the wealthy live in King’s Landing.”

“Aye. They say the old king was skillful with a war hammer. Gendry is skilled with one himself, but I think that comes from his work as a smith.”

“It’s still strange, having the son of my father’s usurper and brother’s killer serving us.”

“I remember what you told me on Dragonstone, about how the sons are not responsible for the father’s crimes.”

_ Trying to appeal to my better nature, as the others do. Somehow I accept it from him better, though. _ “I did say that.”

“I happen to agree with it. In fact, that was one of the reasons I started to like you.”

_ Ahhhh, Jon… I’d thought men like you only existed in the songs… almost too honorable for your own good. Almost._

She glanced around to see if anyone was watching. Satisfied, she reached behind Jon and for the briefest of moments stroked the small of his back. “I’m glad I made a good impression on you,” she said.

“Me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and just when I thought I was done with GOT fiction... I’m going to try a whole Season 8 rewrite. 
> 
> I have no idea how long this will take or how much I’ll write. I’ll try to update at least once a week if possible, but I might be able to do this faster at times. 
> 
> Yes, I’m nuts. I should be totally concentrating on my own non-FF writing, but there you go. Let me know what you think.


	2. A Drink Before The War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As The Army of the Dead and the Dragon Army approaches Winterfell, the Stark sisters share stories and contemplate how their experiences have changed them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a bit of a Dennis Lehane fan, so I couldn't resist giving him a shout-out with this chapter's title.

2.

**Arya**

Sansa sat across from her sister in the solar, wineglass in hand, contemplating the tale she’d just told. She’d expected disgust or horror from Sansa, but she only saw compassion. “I’m so sorry, Arya. Sorry for everything.”

“Sorry?” Arya chuckled as she drained her cup half-filled with ale and proceeded to refill it with a nearby jug. “I just admitted I killed off every adult male of House Frey and their bannermen. I expected you to recoil from me, honestly.”

Sansa gave her a casual shrug. “I was partially responsible for the destruction of House Bolton, during The Battle of The Bastards.”

“The bards get cleverer every year,” Arya said as she started on her next cup. 

“I killed the last Bolton by feeding him to his own dogs.”

“No loss. What he _ did _…” Arya shuddered, unable to continue. “I don’t know how you made it through. I probably would have killed myself, or gotten myself killed. Maybe gone mad at best.

“You’ve grown up,” she continued, taking another sip. “I always thought you were a silly girl, thinking of fantasies of thrones and brave knights. And now you’re one of the strongest people I know, and one of the smartest. It was you who sorted out what Littlefinger was doing - I might have just kept yelling at you or stabbing someone out of spite otherwise. Not _ you,_ of course.”

“You played your role, though. And Bran. As for what I went through… you would have survived. Everything you went through, I can barely contemplate it. I made a decision, in the courtyard of the Dreadfort, that I was _ not _ going to let what had happened to me rule me. I would find safety and happiness in the end, and what he did, what Joffrey and Cersei did, they would not rule who I was or what I did. I would learn from it, and I would do everything to make sure it never happened again.

Sansa took another sip of her wine and leaned forward to stare at her sister. “I ordered you to execute Littlefinger right in these walls. I think I have no right to judge how you chose to get justice for our family when no one else could give it.” She leaned back into her chair and closed her eyes, recalling an old memory. “My father and brother were murderers, my son will be a murderer, _ I’m _a murderer. What difference is it if my sister’s one?”

“What?”

Arya saw Sansa make the softest of smiles. “Something the Hound once said to me. You said you traveled with him for a time? Is he alive?”

“Maybe. Maybe dead. Could be either way, considering how I left him last.”

“Hmn. As rough as he was, he was one of the only people in King’s Landing who showed me any kindness.”

“Me too. In his own way.”

“Arya.” Sansa sighed before she continued. “I can’t even imagine having to do everything you did alone. I was usually with people, even though I never knew whether they had my interests at heart or not. But I’m glad you’re home now.”

“Yes, I’m glad. But I’m anxious, I’ll admit.”

“The dead?”

“And Cersei. Two matters that need to be settled once and for all. After that… I’m not sure what’s next. I’ve been fighting or preparing to fight or running for so long I don’t know what I’ll do when I don’t have to do that anymore.”

“Do you think you’ll still want to do that? Look for a fight, an adventure?” Sansa refilled her glass.

“A good part of me is just tired,” Arya said. “Father always seemed weary whenever he talked about himself and battle. I’m beginning to realize why. Sometimes I think I’ve already had enough fighting to last a lifetime. I’d like to be home for a while without worrying someone is going to take away my family or home.”

“I understand that. I’m sure you’re looking forward to seeing Jon again, after all this time.”

“What’s he been like, since he’s been back from the Wall?”

Sansa leaned back, remembering. “He’s as serious and brooding as ever, but weary. He’s been through a lot, the same as us. When we were growing up, I never pictured Jon as being a leader, someone people would listen too. And here he is, first the Lord Commander and now King of the North. And people _ listen _ to him, Arya, he is a true leader. He’s done what Father would have done if he were still alive.” For the two women, that was the ultimate compliment.

“What do you think Father would have thought of me, if he were here?” Arya said.

Sansa gazed at Arya sympathetically before answering. “I think he’d be proud of what you’ve learned, how you’ve grown as a… soldier, I guess. He’d be sad at what happened to you, that you had to go through everything so young. He always wanted to protect us, but in the end he couldn’t.”

“He’d be amazed by you,” Arya said, taking a deep gulp of ale. “He’d be proud of how independent you’ve become. I think when we were children he worried about who he’d marry you off to, and now you’re helping Jon rule the North. You look out for our people here; you do a great job.

“What would Mother think of me?” Arya continued.

“I think she’d be glad that you were still alive and safe. All of the rest of it, the unladylike behavior…” Sansa waved it away. “She would have suffered it gladly to see you safe.”

“And you too,” Arya said. “I don’t think she ever pictured _ you _ as a leader. Mother only became a leader because no one else was there. _ That _ would be a shock to her, having two headstrong daughters instead of just one.”

They looked at each other in silence before bursting out into giggles. “That’s what’s so incredible to me,” Sansa said as they caught their breath and refilled their drinks. “After growing up and thinking that we were two totally different people, now what I see is how much we’re alike. We’re both independent, we’re both massively loyal to our family, we’re both ruthless when it comes to threats…”

“We both love spirits,” Arya said, raising her cup, and Sansa toasted in kind. “I’m hoping Jon made it to White Harbor with the Dragon Queen’s army. We’ll likely need her… and I always was curious to see dragons.”

“You know what Littlefinger told me just before he died? He thought that Daenerys might be interested in Jon as a husband. You know, both of them young, unmarried, attractive… That might be one thing he wasn’t lying about.”

“What about it? It’s not like he’s betrothed to someone else. If he wants to, or he thinks he needs to do that to get the help we need, that’s understandable. We’re fighting dead people and Cersei. I can’t picture things being more desperate.”

“I worry about him forgetting who he is, who his loyalties are.” Arya might have taken offense before, but she could see Sansa was more worried than angry, drumming her fingers on the arm of her chair.

“He won’t,” Arya said as she got up to stand beside Sansa. “And if this Dragon Queen somehow turns his head, we’ll both be there to remind him. Trust me.”

“All right, I’m taking your word on that.” Sansa reached up and they clinked glass and cup together.

There was a knock on the door. “Ladies?” a voice called out from the other side.

“Come in,” Sansa said, recognizing Maester Wolkan’s voice.

The door opened. The maester was pushing Bran in his chair through the door. “Hello,” Bran said to his sisters.

_ If it’s this late at night, it’s likely bad or urgent news, _Arya thought. “What did you see?”

“The Wall has fallen, next to Eastwatch By The Sea,” Bran said as plain as a snowfield outside Winterfell.

Sansa was amazed at how she and Arya had come to accept that their brother could now see things and do things no normal humans could, as if Bran had simply learned how to ride a horse. “The Army of the Dead?”

“Making their way through the Wall. I’m not sure if all of them have passed through, but they soon will.”

“How many?” Sansa asked.

“Thousands and thousands,” Bran said. “Many more than our forces here.”

“Should we warn Jon and the other lords in the North?” Arya said.

“Jon will need to hurry and get here before the dead arrive,” Sansa said.

Bran gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. “He’s moving as fast as he can now, he and Daenerys Targeryan’s army. I think he suspects the Wall has fallen or will fall. He’ll be here two days from now.”

The siblings stared at each other across the solar room. “Well, we’ll need to start making everything ready for him… and for her, as well,” Sansa said.

“And the dead,” Arya said, her hand on Needle’s hilt and thinking of the fight ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My hope is that I can provide a logical storyline that explains the motivations of the main character. Subtlety was something truly missing in Season 8, which I blame totally on the writers. All of the actors tried to carry it off, especially Emilia Clarke, but the connections weren't happening. I'm hoping that I'm making the connections here.


	3. The Arrival of Ice and Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reunions and surprise reunions and introductions and surprise introductions alike as the forces gather at Winterfell.

3.

**Jon**

As a young man preparing to enter the Night’s Watch, Jon Snow had pictured returning to Winterfell some day. He imagined what it would be like, entering the North Gate dressed all in black, one of the rangers of the watch who battled Beyond the Wall as Uncle Benjen had. 

He had returned to Winterfell as a soldier conquering the Boltons; there had barely been time to think about the homecoming with everything going on.   
  


Now he was returning to Winterfell. But it was on the Kingsroad, and in a manner he never could have pictured as a youth.

Jon and Daenerys rode at the head of a column that extended at least a mile long. Dothraki cavalry rode beside them, behind them, and in front in a light screen. Horses and wagons holding Tyrion, Varys, Brienne, Jorah, and others were immediately behind the royal couple. The Unsullied kept up a brisk pace behind the riders, followed by the Northern troops that had joined them along the way. Finally, wagons filled with dragonglass and the first food supplies from Meereen brought up the rear, protected by a rear guard of Dothraki. The queen’s children flew above in lazy arcs, crossing each other in the air every so often. 

“It’s a beautiful place,” Daenerys said as they rode past the snow-dusted woods and plains. “I _ can _ see what you mean about this being a harsh place in winter.”

“This is a land where I’ve seen some summer snows,” Jon laughed.

That turned her head. “No. You’re joking with me, surely?”

“My Queen, I am not.” He took a look behind him at the wagons. “During harsh winters, food can be a problem in the North if the fall harvests haven’t gone well. It was a good idea to ship food from Meereen. The Northern lords might appreciate that as much as your army.”

“These will be my people when this is over,” Daenerys said matter-of-factly. “I need to show them that I am willing to provide for them as for any of my subjects.”

“It will make a good impression.” He looked ahead of them toward the nearest rise on the horizon. “We’ll be able to see Winterfell and the winter town once we get over that hill,” he said.

“It must be strange for you, returning to a familiar place and yet having things change.”

Jon nodded wistfully. “I still miss Father,” he said. “Rickon… I saw him die right in front of me, before he had a chance to be a man. Such a waste. And then there’s Robb. He was the heir, but I never resented him for it, and he never treated me any differently than our brothers and sisters. We said goodbye when I left for the Night’s Watch, but I never imagined I wouldn’t see him ever again.”

“You must be eager to see… Bran and Arya, right? Won’t this be the first time you’ve seen them since you first served in the Night’s Watch?”

“Aye. They were children when I left, and young men and women now. I remember how much Sansa had changed and grown since I saw her last. When we were children, we had little in common, but when she returned, we grew closer than we ever had.

“Arya and I, we were probably closer to each other than any of our brothers and sisters,” he continued. “We were both outsiders, her because she didn’t want to be a proper lady, and me because I couldn’t be a proper lord due to my birth. It bonded us.”

“I look forward to meeting them all.”

The sight that awaited them was familiar to Jon, so he decided to see Daenerys’ reaction to her first look at his boyhood home. As they came over the rise, she saw the rounded towers of Winterfell begin to poke out of the whitened horizon. It rose from the landscape, an ancient structure, more a part of the terrain than something clearly man-made. Slowly, the dark grey granite walls of the castle became clear, braced against the cold and wilderness surrounding it. Eventually, the rugged, well-thatched and insulated cottages, homes, and shops of the winter town became clear. Jon and Daenerys saw some of the people coming out of those buildings in the village, beginning to line the road on the way to the castle.

He saw Daenerys stopping for a moment in the middle of the road as she saw the entire castle and settlement, and the bastard modesty drilled into him as a child manifested itself. “It’s likely not much to someone who’s lived in Dragonstone and the Great Pyramid of Meereen…”

“It looks quite formidable,” Daenerys said, her voice soft and distant, “very ancient.”

“It’s older than Dragonstone by a few centuries,” Jon said. “Bran the Builder constructed the first part of the castle during the Age of Heroes, before the Andals came to Westeros.”

“I wonder what it would have been like to actually grow up in Dragonstone, as foreboding a place as it is. I imagine Winterfell was such a place.”

Jon’s eyes stayed fixed on the towers of Winterfell. “When I think back to those times, I don’t think of the castle, I think of the people there, the brothers and sisters I grew up with. I think of the father who was disgraced by my birth but loved me anyway, raised me in his home. That’s what I think of.” Jon realized his audience, and turned to her, chastened. “I’m sorry, I know things weren’t like that for you growing up, having a large family.”

“It’s all right,” Daenerys said. “I’m happy for you at least.”

Just before the winter town, there was an oak tree hanging above the road. From a distance, Jon saw a small figure in black leather standing on one of the higher branches. Before they got close enough to make out what his or her face looked like, the figure leaped from the tree and somehow landed on both feet before disappearing into the crowd of smallfolk.

The Northerners gathered along the road, staring in wonder at the bronze-skinned, long-haired Dothraki riders and fierce, hard-eyed Unsullied spearmen. It was certainly not an army or sight any of the smallfolk of the North had ever seen. 

With a shrieking, rumbling cry of dragonsong, Drogon and Rhaegar weaved back and forth over the column, but stayed high enough over the ground to inspire awe rather than terror. They glided to the castle and began circling it in lazy arcs. 

“I’m not sure they like this climate, but they can stand it for a time,” Daenerys said. 

“If they get too cold, we’ll build a bonfire for them. They can help with that,” Jon said, then laughed at the image in his head of dragons laying down by a fire. 

As Jon, Daenerys, and the rest of the column approached the South Gate of Winterfell, the gate eased open for them. Jon turned to Daenerys and said, “Are you ready to meet the family?”

“I would be happy to,” she said. 

They entered the courtyard of Winterfell. He remembered another group of Starks, years ago, lined up in the courtyard to greet the rightful ruler of Westeros. Now they were gathered there again, only with three trueborn Starks together rather than five and their parents. 

Sansa he recognized right away, standing above his other siblings, her flaming red hair hanging loose well below her shoulders, wearing an elegant grey long sleeved dress with the pattern of weirwood tree branches along the bottom line of the gown. There was a long-faced, brown-haired young man, covered in furs and seated in a strange chair equipped with wheels, and he finally realized that it was his surviving brother. 

Then there was the small, brown-haired... _ woman_, not girl, standing next to them, her wide grey eyes fixed on him. Her hair was different than before, looking more like their father’s than the styles favored by her mother. She was dressed in black leather and furs, ready for a fight with an unfamiliar dagger and a very familiar sword. 

Jon came to a stop, alongside Daenerys, in the middle of the courtyard. With a long swing of his leg, he dismounted with his back to the crowd. As a result, he was totally taken off guard when he turned around and found Arya jumping into his arms.

She wrapped her arms around his neck as Jon embraced her as well. The tears came unbidden for both brother and sister as they held each other for a long, drawn out moment. Finally, Jon heard his sister say, “Did you get shorter? Or did I get taller?”

Arya was grinning madly as Jon finally set her down. “Not sure. I see you managed to hang on to that sword,” he said as he beamed down at her.

“I needed it,” she said, nodding.

It was then that they noticed Daenerys had walked up beside them, smiling yet uncertain, not wanting to interrupt a family moment. “My Queen,” Jon said, “this is my sister, Lady Arya Stark. Arya, this is the Queen Daenerys Stormborn.”

“It’s good to meet you,” Daenerys said. “Jon talks about you all the time.”

Arya looked up at Drogon and Rheagal circling high above Winterfell. “Is it true that you ride them into battle?”

Jon seemed slightly embarrassed at his sister’s forwardness, but Daenerys was unflappable. “At times, yes. I ride Drogon, the larger one.”

“Anyone else get to ride them? I’ve been all the way to Braavos, but this is the first time I’ve ever seen any.”

Jon was processing the Braavos admission as Daenerys said, “Perhaps some time they will.”

Patting Arya on the shoulder, he walked over to Bran and wrapped him in a hug. “You… I didn’t hardly recognize you, Bran,” Jon said. “You’re a man now.”

As Jon stood up, he saw the tiniest of smiles on his brother’s face. “Yes and no,” he said.

Unsure of what to make of that statement, Jon turned to Daenerys. “Your Grace, my brother, Lord Brandon Stark.”

“A pleasure, Lord Brandon,” the queen said.

Bran bowed as best that he could in his wheelchair and then turned to Jon. “Jon, the Night King has breached the Wall. His army is on the move.”

Jon turned back to his brother. “How…”

“Your Grace, the Night King has reanimated your dragon and used him to breach the Wall. He rides him at the head of his army as we speak. It was good that you hurried here.” There was barely any emotions in his retelling.

Jon swore that Daenerys swayed briefly on her feet before grabbing a hold of Jon’s shoulder, her mouth open. “How do you know all this?” he asked Bran.

“Bran has… _ visions_,” Sansa said as she approached them. “He can see things from far away, sometimes through the eyes of other living things, like birds.”

“Is that possible?” Daenerys asked.

She was surprised to see Jon nod. “When I was with the Night’s Watch, I met one of the Freefolk with the same gift. Bran, how…”

“That might take a while to explain,” Bran said.

Accepting his answer because he didn’t know what else to do, he turned back to Daenerys, who had gathered herself after the shock news about her child. “Your Grace, may I present the Lady of Winterfell, my sister Sansa Stark.”

“Thank you for inviting us to your home,” Daenerys said. “Jon has talked much about how he looked forward to returning to the North, and I am committed to helping you fight the dead that now have entered your homeland.”

Sansa seemed surprised at the queen’s words. “Thank you, Your Grace. Winterfell is yours. We realize that you are likely weary from your swift travel here, and we would be happy to show you to your guest quarters.”

“That would be very kind,” Daenerys said.

Sansa turned to Jon. “Go ahead and catch up with Arya and Bran for a bit. I’ll be happy to escort the queen to her quarters.”

Jon nodded, and turned to Daenerys. “Your Grace…”

She patted Jon on the shoulder. “I will see you later. Have some time with your family,” she said with a smile.

“Thank you.” Jon’s eyes never left hers until Arya motioned to him. 

He walked over to Arya and Bran. “I needed to go to the godswood for a time,” Bran said. “Would you take me there?”

“Sure,” Jon said. With a brief bit of coaching from Arya, he figured out how to push Bran along, and his sister followed beside her. “The godswood is still in the same place, right?”

“Not everything has totally changed,” Arya said, putting an arm around Jon.


	4. The Lady Dragon and Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa meets with the Dragon Queen’s court, and she and the Dragon Queen take the measure of each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [AUTHOR'S NOTE]: At this point, I have no idea how many chapters this is going to extend into. I've written four so far and cracked the 10,000-word mark. (As a comparison, it took about 40,000-words-plus to put a decent epilogue onto GOT as it currently stands.) I'm thinking at least 20 chapters. We'll both be surprised, huh?

4.

**Sansa**

As her siblings left the courtyard, Sansa saw more people joining the Dragon Queen there. An elegant woman with skin the shade of tea with milk and curly hair stood shivering in the cold stood beside the queen. “Lady Sansa, this is my adviser, Missandei of Naath.” A bald, round man swaddled in silks and furs alike exited one of the wagons entering the courtyard. “This is…”

“Lord Varys, I remember you from King’s Landing,” Sansa replied.

“My Lady,” Varys replied, betraying no emotions. 

Sansa saw an older armored knight, balding but powerful, with a familiar bear sigil on his chest. “Lady Sansa, this is an old friend and confidant from Essos, who grew up in the North, Ser Jorah Mormont.”

“Ser Jorah, welcome,” Sansa said. “Your… cousin, Lady Mormont, has been one of our steadfast allies in securing the safety of the North. I welcome you home.”

Jorah’s face lit up in surprise. “She is here, My Lady?”

“Yes.”

Jorah nodded. “Perhaps I will meet with her later, then. Thank you for your welcome.”

It was then that another man, half the height of Jorah, clad in elegant wool outerwear to keep out the cold, wandered up to the group from the wagon he had ridden in on. He wore a distinctive pin with a hand in the center of it. “And Lady Sansa, may I introduce my Hand…”

“Lord Tyrion, a pleasant surprise to see you alive,” Sansa said, bowing to him. “I know I put you in an uncomfortable position a few years ago.”

Daenerys was puzzled at Sansa’s revelation. “You know Lord Tyrion…?”

“We were once husband and wife,” Sansa said matter-of-factly.

The Dragon Queen whirled toward Tyrion, more surprised than angry. “You never said anything about a former marriage.”

Tyrion held up a hand to calm her down. “A sham marriage, never consummated,” he insisted. “My father wanted to punish her for her family’s defiance of our family, so he decided I was to marry her rather than my idiot nephew, the king at that moment.” He shook his head. “He certainly intended it to be a punishment.”

“Really, Lord Tyrion?” Sansa said, sporting a sardonic grin. She had nothing to hide. “I have been betrothed to three men in my lifetime, and you were the most decent one of them to me, if I am to tell the truth.”

Tyrion scrunched his eyes and pursed his lips in a display of disbelief at that. “The _ best _ of your betrothed?” he said. “I truly feel sorry for you, My Lady.”

“Thank you for your concern,” Sansa said, smiling, “but I think all of you would prefer to rest for now. May I show all of you to your quarters?”

#

“I hope that these will be sufficient for your needs, Your Grace,” Sansa said as she showed the queen and her entourage around the guest quarters at Winterfell. “I know you have many other soldiers that you have brought with you, although we might be able to barrack them within Winterfell’s walls…”

“Do not let that concern you, My Lady,” the queen said. “My Dothraki and Unsullied are already making camp outside your walls. It might be colder than they are used to, but they will endure it, as they have endured other hardships.”

“You have been more than generous, My Lady,” Tyrion said as he followed a couple steps behind them.

“Of course, Your Grace,” Sansa said. “Later tonight, after supper, we’ll talk with the Northern Lords and each other about our plans for what is to come.”

“Lady Sansa, would there be a chance for me to speak briefly with you?” the queen asked. 

Sansa was caught off guard by the request, but tried not to let it show on her face. “Of course, Your Grace. Come with me.”

“My Queen, I would be happy to come along as well…”

“Thank you, my Hand, but I think us two women will be all right on our own. I’m sure your former wife will be happy to visit with you later. Lord Tyrion, I know you are somewhat familiar with this castle, and if you would be willing to help our party settle in to their quarters, I would appreciate it.”

Tyrion was nervous about his queen freelancing diplomacy, but her stab at humor seemed to indicate she was in a good mood. “Of course, Your Grace.”

#

“The main solar in the Great Keep might be more cozy for this, but the castle library was closer to your quarters,” Sansa said as she had the queen sit down in a comfortable high-backed chair next to one of the tables in the library.

“This will be fine,” Daenerys said. “I wanted to get a chance to speak with you alone, before I meet with the rest of the Northern lords.”

Sansa held her hands palms up in consent. “Please, go ahead, Your Grace.”

Daenerys nodded. “In agreeing to help Jon with the Army of the Dead and the Night King, Jon has also made some commitments to me.”

“He has agreed to recognize you as Queen of Westeros over Cersei Lannister and support you in removing her from the Iron Throne.”

“Yes. Would this be something you would object to?”

The question surprised Sansa. “I have never had love for her, although her ruthlessness… made an impression on me. However, she was responsible, directly or indirectly, for the murder of my parents and older brother. She was behind my imprisonment at King’s Landing at the time of my father’s death, and she likely would have blamed me for her son Joffrey’s death and wrongly had me killed as a result. Her death will be no great loss for Westeros. Truth be told, I had thought she was the greater threat to us than the dead, but Jon has convinced me otherwise.”

“Jon did his best to convince me, but it took seeing them in person for me to come to your brother’s view,” Daenerys replied. “The Night King took the life of my dragon Viserion. I regarded him, like all my dragons, as my own children. My desire to fight alongside with you against the dead is a personal quest for justice as well as a queen seeking to protect your people.”

Sansa stared at her. “That was when he went beyond the Wall, correct?” Daenerys nodded in response, but was shocked as Sansa made a shuddering sigh as she looked down at her lap. “I’m so sorry for your loss… but thank you so much for saving Jon. I grew up with four brothers, and Jon is one of the only two I have left. I don’t know if I could take losing more of my family.”

Sansa looked up as the queen leaned over and put her hand over both of Sansa’s on her knee. “I know how much he cherishes you and your siblings, how much love that you have for each other. It is something I wish I had experienced. My oldest brother and even his children died before I was born, and Viserys was never the most affectionate of brothers in the best times. The closeness I saw between all of you today, that is something admirable.”

“‘The lone wolf dies but the pack survives,’” Sansa said, smiling. “Father told us that when we were children, and that was one of the truest things he ever told us. For years after his death, I felt so alone, unready. My family has been a great strength to me.”

“It’s strange that I grew up hating your father, the Usurper’s best friend. The more I have learned of him, from Jon, the more I’ve come to admire him. Then again, my father killed your uncle and grandfather, so I should be grateful that you have even invited me into your home.”

“Children are not responsible for the crimes of their parents, no matter how strange it seems to have Targaryen and Stark together in one place,” Sansa said.

“That’s one of Jon’s sayings,” Daenerys said. “He’s very much a man of honor, of principle. I remember how… frustrated I was that he didn’t immediately bend the knee to me to get my support, and surprised that he was willing to risk meeting with a Targaryen for the benefit of his people.”

Sansa cracked a smile at that. “All of that is exactly what Jon is.”

“I would ask you something, Lady Sansa,” the queen said, patting her hands. “If Aegon The Conqueror was in my position, I believe he would demote your King Jon to Warden of the North as a symbol of his fealty. However, Lord Tyrion believes that would not be looked upon favorably by your northern lords, and perhaps not by you. Is he correct?”

Sansa closed her eyes to collect herself and find a reasonable answer. “I do not think it would,” she said. “Since the death of Robert Baratheon, we have been battered by the schemings of those in King’s Landing. The North has declared for Robb and now Jon to be Kings of the North for us to choose our own path. The North is different in many ways from Westeros south of the Neck.

“As for myself… I remember fantasizing, for a brief, shining moment as a little girl, being married to the occupant of the Iron Throne,” Sansa continued, the memories flashing behind her eyes. “But after everything I have experienced, my family has experienced? If I never leave the North again during my lifetime and not concern myself with any politicking south of the Neck, I will be content. The North will surely support your claim to the Iron Throne, Your Grace. We will follow your lead, but we want to have the ability to govern our own affairs.”

With a final, reassuring pat, Daenerys sat back in her chair. “Thank you for your openness, Lady Sansa. With that in mind, I think I might have to try a slightly different approach than that of my ancestor or my father. I do not wish to upset a proud people who I will need on my side if I am going to press the case of my claim to the Iron Throne.”

Sansa breathed a sigh of relief. “I think that would be looked upon very favorably by the people of the North, and considered truly generous.”

“I’m glad we’ve had the time to meet. I want someone like you to be on my side. To be honest, I think we have many things in common. We’re both strong women whose worth as rulers… has been doubted by men at times. Is this not the case?”

“Yes,” Sansa eagerly nodded at that.

“Jon told me of the tribulations you experienced as a result of your betrothals. I had an experience that was similarly terrible, at least at the start of my marriage, so I have at least some understanding of what you went through.”

“They were hard times,” Sansa said, staring off into the distance as the death of Ramsey echoed through her head.

“There is one other thing that I think we have in common,” Daenerys said. She hesitated and gathered herself up in her chair, but finally added: “We both love Jon.”

“Your Grace?” At first, Sansa thought that she had misheard the Dragon Queen. But then he looked at Daenerys. Her violet eyes were wide open and she wore such an expression of naked openness, breathing deeply to perhaps gather herself.

“Jon can close himself off at times and keep his feelings to himself,” the queen said with just the slightest quiver in her voice, “but I think his sister would have an idea of what is in his heart. Am I right?”

Finally, Sansa nodded. “I have to confess, I never saw Jon look at a woman as he did with you today. He tried to hide it, but…” She shrugged her shoulders.

“I had not expected to fall in love with your brother, but I fear that it might be true, as much as it is a surprise to me,” Danerys said. “For one thing, most of the men I have been with as a wife or lover have been… a bit larger in stature than your brother,” Sansa found herself muffling a giggle despite herself. “But he is a larger man in so many ways - his heart, his sense of honor and duty, the way he can lead and inspire people. He is also the first man I’ve been with who was not interested in falling in love with a queen, but with me. That is a rare thing.”

Sansa let out a breath that she had been holding in for several moments. “Your Grace, I’m surprised that you were willing to admit this to me.”

She was surprised that the queen responded by taking Sansa’s hands into her own grasp. “Fate has thrown us together as strangers to work together for the benefit of our people, and the protection of Jon,” Daenerys said. “We will have little enough time to get to know each other and less time for needless ceremony and posturing. Despite all of the history between our families and the unknowns between us, you have been open and honest toward me, and I can do no less. I understand we do not totally trust each other, but we can work toward that.”

Sansa made the smallest of bows to the shorter woman. “For our people’s sake, for Jon’s sake… I’m willing to try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Episode 2 was one of the highlights of Season 8, but the one clunker of a scene in it was the library scene between Sansa and Daenerys. I wondered what could have happened to that scene if the two women weren't interested in a fight or dominance, but in the welfare of their people and one man in particular. I thought it would make more sense for them to cooperate, especially given the severity of the obstacles they faced and the short amount of time they had to get ready for them. Hopefully this does both characters justice.


	5. Brothers and Sisters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Arya learn about what has and has not changed about them and Bran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure how quickly I’ll be getting new chapters out. Maybe twice a week if I’m lucky? I don’t want to be writing this thing for years and years.

5.

**Jon**

The godswood still looked the same. He was surprised how that reassured him. 

It was somewhat difficult going over the uneven ground, but Jon managed to maneuver Bran’s wheelchair through the godswood with Arya by his side. “Bran, where do want us to put you?”

“Put me right next to the weirwood tree,” Bran said. “It helps me focus on what I need to do.”

They came to a stop. “Right here?” Jon said. 

Bran nodded. “This will take a while. I’m not hungry, so don’t worry about dinner for me. Perhaps Brienne, Podrick or someone can get me later on.”

“All right. But won’t you freeze out here?” Jon said. 

“I’m well wrapped up here, don’t worry,” Bran said. “We will have to talk soon, Jon, as soon as we can. I’m glad you came home.” With that, he leaned back into his chair and Jon saw his eyes turn totally white inside his head.

“I still can’t get used to that,” Arya said. “You knew someone else who could do this, this Three-Eyed-Raven business?”

Jon nodded. “Ever since I left here for the first time, I’ve seen the undead, dragons, and my own death and revival. What’s the idea of a person who can see with the eyes of ravens and can see into the minds of others compared to all that?”

Arya was solemn as she faced Jon, now standing several yards away from Bran and the weirwood. “That really happened, then. How does that work?”

Jon patted her on the shoulder for reassurance. “When the Army of the Dead started killing off the Freefolk to add to their numbers, as Lord Commander I decided something needed to be done. I offered the Freefolk sanctuary south of the Wall inside The Gift. As few Watch brothers as there are now, we had plenty of space for them there. But there were those who did not trust the Freefolk, and came to doubt my judgement. They plotted against me, surprised me, and stabbed me to death with knives.

“They told me I was dead for a day and night,” Jon continued as he saw the horror creep across Arya’s face. “They asked a Red Witch to see if she could revive me, and somehow she managed it.”

“A Red Witch? Was her name Melisandre?” Jon nodded. “I would _ not _ trust her. When I met her, she was willing to do anything for her Lord Of Light.”

“You’re not wrong,” Jon said. “Later, we learned that she’d burned Shireen Baratheon to death as a sacrifice to the Lord Of Light. Lord Stannis agreed to it to bring him victory against the Boltons. A little girl dead and it didn’t even work. I banished her from the North upon pain of execution.”

“Good, even though I’m glad she brought you back,” Arya said, her grey eyes ablaze. “The people who kill.. tried to kill…”

“I hanged them as traitors, then gave up the Watch,” Jon said. “I wasn’t sure I could stay on, and I thought one death for the Watch was enough.”

Arya wrapped her arms around him. “Don’t worry. That’s never going to happen again.”

“And you are sure of this? What, did Bran let you in on my fate?” Jon grinned as he tried to cheer up the little sister he remembered. 

“Bran can’t see into the future, not clearly, anyway. He can see the present and the past, sometimes. No, you’re not going to have one of these northern lords or untrustworthy southern courtiers stab you in the back.” Arya looked up at him with a chilling grey-eyed stare with no compassion in it at all. “Because I’ll murder them if they even start planning to do it.”

A tremor ran through Jon as he stared down at Arya. “You don’t have to do that. I can protect myself…”

“We’re a pack, Jon. The pack survives together, and I know pack business. You wonder why Littlefinger wasn’t here to greet you in the courtyard?”

Jon’s stomach dropped as he realized what she was talking about. “What happened?”

“After I arrived, Littlefinger tried to stir up trouble between Sansa and me. He couldn’t flatter me, so he let me discover the note that Sansa wrote asking Robb to submit to Joffrey. I thought she had betrayed us and we had a row about it.

“Afterward, I felt horrible about it. I realized that she had to write what she did to stay safe. I realized that if I were in her spot and did what I wanted her to do, I would have been hurt or killed.

“But then Littlefinger made a mistake,” she continued, her grin spreading as she savored the memory. “He was talking with Sansa about her concerns with me and with you, and he asked her to think what was the worst reason I was doing what I did. Sansa said ‘She wants to be Lady Of Winterfell.’ And the smug fool _ agreed _ with her, can you imagine it?”

“She didn’t really believe that.”

Arya shook her head. “Littlefinger’s problem was that he never knew how to deal with people who didn’t want power. And since he was infatuated with Sansa, he never suspected she would set him up.

“So Sansa came to me and we started thinking,” she continued. “Sansa knew Littlefinger had killed Lyssa Arryn after she tried to kill Sansa. We suspected he was the real cause of Lord Arryn’s death, too. So, we went to Bran, and he confirmed our suspicions. He also saw how Littlefinger had worked with Cersei to betray and murder Father. So, Sansa sentenced him to death and I slashed his throat.”

Jon was silent for a long time. He finally laid a hand on the top of his sister’s head. “You shouldn’t have had to do that. You’re too young…”

“I’m _ not _ a child anymore, Jon. You can’t protect Sansa and me on your own. We all protect each other.”

Arya was stunned to see Jon wiping tears out of the corners of his eyes. “Sansa told me that, too. I guess you’re right.” He shook his head, trying to clear his vision and his head. “What happened to you, Arya?”

#

“Seven Hells,” was all that Jon could say after Arya finished her tale of what had happened between their father’s death and her return to Winterfell. 

They sat on a root of the weirwood tree while Bran continued to stare sightlessly up in the cloudy skies. “Does Sansa know?” he finally said. 

“Everything.” Arya nodded. “I never said anything to Bran, but I guess he could look back on all of it if he wanted.”

“So, you left Westeros to learn how to be an assassin, away from all of us. Why?”

She shuddered, thinking of her training there in Braavos. “I thought everyone was dead. I thought revenge was the only thing I had. I went there to learn how to kill, but I was hurting, I hurt so much. There was so much sadness and anger that after a while, I didn’t want to feel anything.

“At The House Of Black And White, to be part of them, The Faceless Men, you had to give up your identity, be No One,” she explained. “And I really thought about throwing away my identity, to escape my pain. But I couldn’t throw away my past, my name, so I came back.” She turned back to Jon. “Now I’m here to help you fight the dead. And after that… Cersei is the last person left who wronged us. She’ll have to answer to us.”

“All right, all right.” He put his arm over her shoulders. “And after that?”

The uncertainty was clear in her slumped posture and furrowed brow. “I’m not sure. But I don’t want to leave any of you again.”

“You won’t, Sister,” Jon said, kissing the top of her head as she leaned into him. “You won’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is how I wanted to see the reunion of Jon and Arya go. Hopefully I have done right by these characters and this relationship.


	6. Reforging Bonds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya has two unexpected reunions.

6.

**Arya**

As Bran had requested, Arya and Jon had left their brother under the weirwood tree and started to make their way to the Great Hall. There was to be a feast there, and then Queen Daenerys was to be introduced to the Northern lords formally. They would then discuss the ongoing plans to prepared for the Army Of The Dead.

Arya was walking through the courtyard when she noticed two figures standing outside the forges of Winterfell amongst a flurry of activity, with people carrying baskets and bags full of dragonglass into the forge. However, it was the two figures that caught her eye.

The first figure she recognized almost immediately, with scraggly long black hair only partially covering the burned right side of his bearded face. _ The Hound – at Winterfell? _ Arya thought to herself.

Then she took a closer look at the other man. He was shorter than the Hound, but not by much. He was broad shouldered and powerful in the short-sleeved tunic he wore, his black hair mostly shorn from his head and clean-shaven on his face. Then she studied the shape of his face and the young man’s blue eyes, and she stopped dead in her tracks.

_ No. It’s not him. Is it? Could it? _

She was startled by Jon’s hand on her elbow as he turned her to face him. “Arya? Is everything all right?”

He was surprised to see Arya smile, half in disbelief and half with a creeping sense of joy. “I’m all right,” she said. “Just give me a moment, all right?”

She started walking to the forge to approach the two men, who had now ducked inside the forge. Ducking past the workers bringing in the dragonglass, she followed them inside.

She found them in front of a forge as the man she was not certain was Gendry was showing the Hound what appeared to be a double-bladed, two-handed battle ax made up of a single large piece of dragonglass attached to a wooden handle. “It was a bit difficult, but the larger piece made it work,” Gendry said. “You think this will work for you?”

The Hound took it into his own hands, feeling the weight and balance and checking the sharpness of each of the edges. “Well, at least you’re not a shit smith,” he rumbled when he was finished. “This will probably do.”

“Thank you,” Gendry said, nodding.

“Let me ask you something, though,” the Hound said, pointing one blade of the ax at him and leering, “Up Beyond The Wall, those who make weapons for the Freefolk are either cripples or poofs. Which one of those are you?”

_Once a cunt, always a cunt,_ she thought to herself. “Seven Hells, just leave him alone,” she sighed. “It’s not like you have to pay for the thing.”

Both men turned to face Arya, who stood there with her hands on both Needle and the Catspaw dagger, leaning up against a post. “You,” the Hound said.

“Me.”

“It’s a good thing that I don’t need to pay for this, seeing as how you ripped me off in the Vale.”

Arya merely shrugged. “I needed it more than you, heading to Braavos.” She was going to add more to it, but she saw Jon walk in behind her, trying to understand what was going on.

“You left me for dead.”

“That wasn’t my fault. Besides, I spared your life after you told me to kill you.”

“Heh.” The Hound slung his new ax over his shoulder and started to leave before stopping in front of Jon. “Your sister is likely the coldest bitch I’ve ever met,” he said. “That’s probably why she’s still alive. Your Grace.” He bowed his head and walked away before Jon could react.

Jon started to turn around to say something, but he saw his sister grinning like a madwoman at the Hound as she watched him leave. Then she turned to Gendry. “It’s you.”

“It’s you. You look great… I mean… I mean, you’ve grown,” Gendry said, suddenly conscious of Jon’s presence.

Arya tried to keep her smile tight as she fought not to laugh at his nervousness. “Thanks. You have, too.” That was no lie – it seemed like Gendry had added a couple of inches of size to his arms and shoulders since when the Red Woman had taken him away.

“Er, Gendry, this is my sister…”

“We’ve met,” Arya and Gendry said in unison.

Now Jon’s confusion was total as he looked between the two of them as they smiled at each other, hesitant yet apparently happy at the sight of each other. “Wait, how do you know each other?”

Arya turned back to face Jon, looking at him as she once looked at their father when she realized she had broken a rule, usually involving unladylike behavior. “Gendry was one of the Night’s Watch recruits I got smuggled out of King’s Landing with. He figured out who I was, but kept quiet about it. He… looked after me,” she concluded, her voice growing soft at the last sentence.

“You wound up saving _ my _ life at least once,” Gendry said.

“Eventually, the stupid Brotherhood sold him off to that Red Witch, and the Hound out there made off with me and tried to ransom me off, but our family kept dying before we got there.” She turned to Gendry. “What happened with you?”

“The Red Woman took me to Dragonstone to meet Stannis Baratheon. They kept me locked up until Ser Davos Seaworth helped me escape back to King’s Landing. I hid out there, smithing and trying not to get noticed, until Davos came back and recruited me for Jon.”

“Gendry went with me Beyond the Wall when we captured that wight and nearly wound up as part of the Night King’s army,” Jon said.

“Wait, you went up Beyond the Wall?” Arya said to Gendry.

“Er, yeah,” he finally said after a pause.

That brought Arya up short. _ OK, that was impressive_. Then something else came to mind. “Wait, though. What did Stannis Baratheon want with you?”

Gendry looked down as if the floor was going to give him a way to answer the question, but it didn’t. He walked up to Arya and said, “I’m Robert Baratheon’s bastard.”

She froze, her grey eyes widening as she stared at Gendry. Then, slowly, deliberately, she leaned back and shoved Gendry in the chest with both hands and all of her force. “You _stupid_ bull.”

“Arya…”

A second shove sent Gendry stumbling and then leaning up against the edge of a hearth. “You going on about ‘you’ll always be M’Lady to me,’ and here you were a king’s bastard…”

“I didn’t know, all right?” Gendry shouted. “It wasn’t until the Red Woman told me, when we were headed to Dragonstone, that I found out.”

“And you trust her word?” Arya shot back.

“Lord Stannis seemed to believe it well enough,” Gendry said. “So did Davos and your brother, for good measure.”

Something from their trip popped into Arya’s head. “Wait, the Gold Cloaks. They were after you specifically, right?”

Gendry realized what Arya was thinking. “They wanted me because I was his bastard. I hadn’t thought of that until now.”

Arya got closer to him and stared up at his face. “You’ve got his eyes,” she said, remembering the brash king who had convinced her father to travel down to King’s Landing and his ultimate fate. “I might have seen it faster if you were as old and fat as he was. Gods,” she concluded, shaking her head.

“I don’t want to interrupt,” Jon said, putting a hand on both Arya and Gendry’s shoulders, “but we should get to the Great Hall.” He turned to Gendry. “You might as well set this aside for now and come with us. At least you’ll get a meal out of it, and you’ll find out how long you’ll have to make the rest of the weapons.”

Gendry turned to Arya. “Come on, then,” she said, nodding toward the hall.

Jon led the way to the hall as Arya and Gendry followed, not talking but continuing to steal glances at each other, seeing what if anything had changed in the years since they had seen each other.

_ He still looks as strong as he did,_ Arya thought. _ Maybe more now. I can’t call him a stupid _ boy _ anymore, at least. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [NOTE 9.12.2019: I have NOT forgotten this story, just got caught up in some real life stuff. I have the seventh chapter almost fully done and some ideas of where the next several chapters will go. I have no idea how many yet, maybe approximately six chapters per the seven episodes, but right now I don't have a clue. Maybe I'll have everything in the first episode covered in 10 chapters and moving on... I might have to spend some time storyboarding this stuff out.  
Later and let me know what you think in the comments - I've appreciated all of them.]


	7. The North Gathers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys is introduced to the lords and ladies of the North. The Dragon Queen has a surprise for them as plans for war are put into motion.

7.

**Daenerys**

It was midway through that evening as the assembled lords and ladies were finishing the last of their evening meal. Servants were already busy clearing the tables of excess food and dishes to prepare for the meeting to come. They were also following Sansa’s directive to set aside any excess or leftover food that could be stored and kept for later, as a way of extending the castle’s food stores.

The queen was seated just left of the center of the high table, with Jon to her immediate right. His brother and sisters were also at the high table, Bran having been collected from the godswood as he had requested.

Both Lord Tyrion and Missandei were also at the table, not as close as the others. Tyrion was seated on the outside next to Sansa, and the former spouses were having a quiet and civil conversation with each other. Tyrion was asking about the difficulties she had encountered making preparations at Winterfell. To her surprise, Daenerys saw Missandei in conversation with Arya Stark, the younger girl peppering her advisor with questions about what life on Naath and Dragon’s Bay was like. Bran was serene near the left end of the table, content at staring into space.

At a certain point when the tables were cleared, Jon stood up to speak. “Lords, Ladies, thank you for joining us here tonight, and in our preparations to defend against the Army Of The Dead,” he said. “We will put all of our plans in place to make sure that when they arrive, we will be ready to fight them and defeat them when the time comes.

“Before, I promised that I would do everything to recruit allies in this fight against the dead, so I went and made such an alliance.” Jon pointed to Daenerys open-handed. “Daenerys Stormborn is the last living child of Aerys II. She plans to press her claim as the legitimate ruler of Westeros, and the occupant of the Iron Throne.” There were low murmurs throughout the crowd, growing gradually as Jon turned back to the assembled nobles. “However, before she does this, she has agreed to aid us in our time of need. She would like to speak with you now.”

Daenerys rose from her seat. “Thank you, Your Grace, for your welcome and hospitality.” She walked around the table to come closer to the nobles she was addressing. In a sea of men and women in dark, unadorned clothing, the queen stood out in her snowy grey gown with Targaryen red trim, the sliver three-headed dragon pin above her heart, and her silver hair encased in an intricate series of braids. 

“All of my life, I wondered what it would be like to return here to Westeros,” she began. “I grew up with my brother’s stories of my family’s history, our dynasty in Westeros. After he died, I vowed to reclaim what was my family’s by right. That was the reason I brought my followers to Westeros.

“But then, I met your king, Jon Snow,” she continued. “He convinced me that there was a greater threat to Westeros than simply a dispute over who is to rule. I came to realize that there was no point in my claiming an Iron Throne if I ruled over a Westeros filled with the dead. And I could not call myself a queen if I could not prioritize the needs of my people over my own ambitions. 

“So, I come to you to aid you in your time of need,” she said, spreading her arms wide. “I also realize that to trust a Targaryen is a hard thing for a Northerner. I did not grow up in Westeros, but I know its history. My ancestor Aegon I subjugated The North under threat of dragonfire and made Torrhen Stark The King Who Kneeled. My father burned a Warden of the North and his son to death. Those were Your Grace’s grandfather and uncle, so you can imagine how hard it was for Jon to trust me. I can speak plenty of fine words to you, but I realize that you will only come to trust me through my actions. My army and my dragons are here for your defense. Food and supplies are on their way here to ensure that you will be able to survive the hard winter to come; the first of those wagons are here now. I have given you the dragonglass that you will need to defend yourself, and when the Night King’s army comes, I will fight by your side. Judge me by my actions, and I will not let you down.”

As quiet conversation rustled through the hall, Daenerys tried to get a feel for the mood of the room. Even she had not expected rapturous applause, but was hoping to avoid hate. The expressions of the hard men and women in the room seemed to be a mixture of wariness but a willingness to listen.   
  


An older northerner slowly rose to his feet. “May I speak, Your Grace?”

“Of course, Lord…

“Lord Robett Glover, Your Grace, of Deepwood Motte. It is said our king has pledged his support for your claim to the Iron Throne. Is this true?”

“I have done so,” Jon said. “Cersei Lannister killed my father and my brother, my predecessor as your king. She needs to answer for her crimes. But that will wait until The Army of the Dead is defeated.”

Another round of uncertain murmurings rolled through the crowd, but Daenerys also saw a few nodding heads, as well. 

To her great surprise, she saw a small figure stand up to face her. “Your Grace, I have a question,” she said in a girl’s high voice, yet one filled with steel. She appeared barely in her teens, a girl with long brown hair and piercing amber eyes. 

“My pardon, young lady, you are…?”

“Lyanna Mormont, Lady of Bear Island.”

The queen dipped her head towards her. “My apologies, My Lady. Please ask your question.”

“We have recognized no king but the King in the North. You say he will support you in taking the Iron Throne. Do you intend for our king to kneel as well?”

_And there it is_, Daenerys thought to herself. She looked over her shoulder at Tyrion, who gave her a single nod. She was ready.

“This is a valid question,” Daenerys said. “Certainly, that is what my ancestor did to Jon’s ancestor. However, just like children are not responsible for their parent’s crimes, neither are they bound to do something just because that’s what their parents have done.”

_That_ sent another quiet rumble through the crowd. She noticed the raised eyebrows and confused stares of some of the crowd. Lady Mormont, for her part, was maintaining a perfect stone face as she continued to listen.

“In my rule in Meereen, it was my philosophy to leave my subjects better off than where I found them,” she continued. “That’s one of the reasons Slaver’s Bay is now known as Dragon’s Bay – a symbol of our abolition of slavery and a better life for its people. My philosophy is to work at finding new and better ways of ruling and serving the people under my rule. This is no different.

She turned in a circle to face all of the lords. “It is true that Jon Snow has sworn featly to me, but he will remain your King in the North.” She paused to let the sudden excitement in the room die down. “The fight against the dead and the Lannister woman is too important for us to get distracted by what will happen after the war. We cannot waste any time with their army on the march.”

Now the rumble was a low roar as the northern lords digested this news. _Will they accept this? Now is the crucial moment_, the queen thought to herself.

An old, heavy, gnarled man pushed himself up to his feet with a blackthorn cane. “With the dead on the march, we might wind up fighting beside wildlings and who knows who else. Are my fellow nobles in favor of this?”

It was at this moment that the queen saw Sansa Stark rise from her seat. “I’ll answer that, Lord Flint. My lords, you have appointed two of my brothers to be your King in the North,” she said. “I know, both from your first-hand experiences and my own, why we fought for the North’s independence. We were fully ruled by people far away from us, and in the end, they were not, and are not now, honorable people.

“However, we are in a desperate time,” she continued. “We know that the threats we face are not ones that we can face alone. Daenerys Stormborn is offering us that help. If the Dragon Queen is willing to protect the North, we should be willing, at least, to back her claim to the throne.”

It took every ounce of self-control that Daenerys had developed over many years of dealing with foreign dignitaries to keep her jaw from falling open. She had hoped that the northern lords would grudgingly go ahead with her proposal, or at least entertain the proposal, but this was more than she expected. She had hoped to break the ice with Sansa in their meeting, but it appeared to have had a more positive effect than she expected.

She was even more surprised to see Arya, after she looked toward Jon for a long moment, rise from her chair. “I have been away from home for many years, and away from our King. But I grew up with him, and I think I know his heart better than nearly anyone. There’s not any part of him that would wish to betray the North. Throughout his life, he’s only wanted the best for people. If he feels this is the best plan for us, then I trust him.”

Jon made his way around the table and came to a stop by Bran. He laid his right hand on Bran’s shoulder. “My brother has seen the Army of the Dead breaching the Wall,” he said.

“What? How? Is this possible?” were among the questions shouted out of the general rabble of the crowd.

“It is true,” Jon stated as fact as he walked down to the floor. “He has used an undead dragon and his magic to break down the wall at Eastwatch by the Sea. At best, we have just weeks and at worst we have just days to prepare for when the Night King’s army arrives at the gates of Winterfell. Queen Daenerys is right. We do not have time for debates about what the future of Westeros will look like until we ensure that there is a future.”

Jon came to stand in front of Daenerys. “My father once said that we find our true friends on the battlefield,” he said. “I believe Queen Daenerys Stormborn will be one of those friends.” He held out his right arm toward her as she heard the first hints of approval from the group.

_He does have a way with words,_ she thought. “I am sure you will remember how I helped defend you against the dead,” Daenerys said. “I know that I will never forget those who supported me in my time of need.”

With that, she reached out with her right arm. They grasped each other by the elbow as the first hesitant cheers carried through the halls.

“To our alliance!” Sansa called out. 

“Our alliance!” Arya and other nobles called out in response.

The cheers grew and Jon stared into her eyes, as the tiniest hint of a smile appeared. “And you were worried about your reception, Your Grace.”

“Well, time will tell, Your Grace,” she said, “but I do thank you for _your _support.”

#

“So, we concentrate our fighting men and women here at Winterfell and evacuate all who are unable to fight to White Harbor for transport to Dragonstone and safety,” Jon said to the nobles remaining in the hall. They were gathered around a massive feasting table covered by a map of Westeros, stones of various colors and cyvasse pieces representing movements of both the living and the dead.

“We have sufficient land and sea forces at Dragonstone to guard against attack, and the dead are not capable of crossing the waters,” Daenerys said. “It will be the safest place for them at the moment. The first of our wagons bringing food and other supplies here have arrived, and we can start using them to send people to White Harbor tomorrow.”

“When you rode Drogon to Beyond the Wall, how long did it take you to get there?” Jon asked Daenerys.

“Perhaps two, three days,” Dany replied.

“So this Night King could be outside the gates with his undead dragon tomorrow, then,” Old Flint said.

“Not likely,” Jon said. “It would just be him and his dragon against two other dragons and an entire army. He’d be at a disadvantage, and I believe he has been planning what he will do for some time. No.” He pointed at the blue-painted stones representing the Night King’s army. “He will go with his foot soldiers, ‘recruiting’ any living beings into his army before coming to Winterfell.” He turned back to Bran. “Based on what you see, how long will his foot soldiers take to get to Winterfell?”

Bran considered this for a moment. “The army will go slowly as to not miss any stray living people, but they do not require sleep or refreshment like the living,” Bran concluded. “I would say that they could arrive here in a fortnight, maybe longer.”

“Thank you, Bran,” Jon said as conversations amongst the lords picked up at this revelation. “Do what you can to keep an eye on them, eh, Brother?”

“I’ll use all three of them, Brother.” The tiniest of smiles showed up on Bran’s face, and Jon was glad to see a hint of the mischievous young boy he had been.

“We still don’t have any idea of how many fighters we are going to have when the dead arrive, so we’ll have to plan in general terms,” Jon said. “Lords, I know you have been making efforts to train those of fighting age to use spear, bow, and other weapons, but we will have to speed up those efforts if we can.” He looked up at Brienne of Tarth, who was examining the projected path of the Army of the Dead toward Winterfell. “Lady Brienne, you will be fighting with our vanguard, but until the dead arrive, I would have you direct the training of those new fighting men and women, to make sure they are as prepared as possible.”

Brienne nodded. “Podrick should be able to help as well.”

“Me too,” Arya cut in. “Some of the female trainees might be less intimidated by me at first.”

Brienne turned to the young lady who had been busy at practice with her on and off ever since Sansa and Littlefinger had seen them in the courtyard together. “I didn’t know I was intimidating to women.”

“To be fair, you’re intimidating to everyone, but I just thought you’d need an extra hand,” Arya said with a laugh.

Brienne half-mockingly bowed to her. “Any assistance would be valuable.”

Jon rolled his eyes at that, but it was nice to see the old joking side of his sister back as well. He turned to Sansa. “We’re going to have to keep the wagons moving in and out of Winterfell from now until the Night King shows up on the horizon. Food moving in and people moving out to White Harbor. Sansa, I’m going to need you to keep that in order and make sure we have enough storage for all of it.”

“My Lady, perhaps Missandei could be of some assistance to you,” Daenerys said. “Not all of my men speak the Common Tongue, and she has been valuable to me in administrative tasks, especially back in Meereen.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Sansa said. Looking at first Jon and then Daenerys, she added, “Thanks to your shipments I think we might have the good problem of having to find places to store it in the castle. We might have to build some temporary granaries for that purpose.”

“Thank you,” Jon said.

Daenerys then turned to Davos. “Ser Davos, I understand that you have been attempting to get in contact with your wife and sons.”

The mention of his family during a strategy system was a surprise to Davos. “Er, yes, Your Grace,” he said. “It has been a long time since I have seen them, and under the circumstances I want to make sure that they are safe.”

”Of course, Ser Davos,” Daenerys said. “Perhaps you can bring them to Dragonstone.”

”Pardon, Your Grace. Dragonstone?”

“I know that you are Hand of King Jon, but I have asked and His Grace has agreed to having you serve as my Master of Sail.” As Davos looked between the king and queen, Daenerys continued, “With Queen Yara captured and her brother seeking to rescue her, you are the most experienced naval commander available. I need someone who will be able to ensure our convoys between White Harbor, Dragonstone, and Meereen will be safe, as well as overseeing the defense of Dragonstone from Euron Greyjoy and his Iron Fleet. King Jon felt that given your familiarity with the island, you would be helpful with its defense.”

“And since you’ll be at Dragonstone, it would allow you to send for Marya and your boys,” Jon said with a grin.

Clearly moved, Davos bowed first to Jon and then Daenerys. “Your Graces... thank you for the honor,” he said. “I will help get the camps and transportation set up, but I should be able to leave for White Harbor in the next few days.”

Jon now looked to Ser Jorah, Lord Royce, and Lord Tyrion. “We’ll start setting up defenses for the castle,” Jon said. “Defensive trenches won’t work – the ground’s too hard to dig into it, and when the dead get into the trenches, they’ll just fall into them and be used as stepping stones by their undead brothers.”

“Some sort of wooden palisades, perhaps,” Jorah said. “Wooden spikes so they could catch the undead, and something that can be set afire, for sure.”

“Our archers will need fire to light up their arrows,” Grey Worm spoke up in his halting, but deep and clear voice. “Flaming… liquid for the walls to go down on the dead.”

Tyrion nodded in agreement. “Wildfire would have been just the thing for this…” he said, thinking out loud, but cut himself short when he realized Ser Davos was in the room. “A truly horrifying weapon, but I would have no problems with using it against the dead. I suppose we will have to make do with fire from torches… and dragons.

Tyrion turned to Jon. “We likely could construct some catapults that could hurl flaming missiles at the enemy,” he said. “There could be enough space in the castle for at least a half dozen modest-sized machines.”

“There might be more room outside the walls, surely?” Daenerys said.

“They likely would be too vulnerable to attack and any enemy missiles,” Lord Royce said. “Better to keep them behind walls. In fact, better to keep most of our forces behind walls unless they’re mobile.”

“The Dothraki,” Daenerys said to herself.

“We’ll have to consider how they might be used, as well as Lord Royce’s knights,” Jon said. He now looked at Gendry. “Do you think we’ll have enough time to arm everyone with dragonglass?”

Somewhat self-conscious, wearing only simple workmen’s clothes around the armored staring lords, Gendry plunged ahead. “There’s plenty of dragonglass, forges, and tools, but I could use any more smiths or workers to get it all done on time.”

“Since I’ll likely need some of those types of people for my project, I will see if I can find some for your efforts as well,” Tyrion said.

Gendry’s awkward bow to him raised more than a little sympathy from Tyrion for the bastard smith. “Thank you, My Lord.”

“The dragonglass… could it be put… on the castle? To keep the dead from climbing the walls?” Grey Worm asked. Many of the lords appeared surprised and even embarrassed that the Essosi general had thought of the idea and they had not even considered it.

“There’s plenty of leftover pieces or shards too small for other use that could work,” Gendry said. “It wouldn’t be too difficult to use mortar to stick them on the walls and battlements, surely.”

“Good,” Jon said. He saw Dany taking a deep breath as she contemplated the mass of blue stones headed toward their location. He saw the weariness in the postures of his advisers and the northern lords. “It is late, everyone,” he said. “I think it best that we get as much sleep as possible, as we will begin putting these plans into place tomorrow.”

The lords, ladies, and assorted advisers filtered out of the Great Hall. Eventually, only Daenerys was left there to watch Jon hunched over the table, staring at the pieces on the table as if waiting for them to impart wisdom for the coming fight.

Satisfied no one was watching them, she came from behind to rub at the base of his neck and lower back, to soothe him. “We will be ready,” she whispered to him. “We will know how to meet this evil.”

To her surprise, she found the King of The North leaning into her caresses. “I’m glad you’re confident. I know we have to, at least. There’s not another choice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm hoping to go no more than a week between postings on these - I don't want to be writing this forever. :) I think the more diplomatic and practical approach Dany takes here pays off for her in the end.  
[UPDATE: I generally plotted out where this story is going to go. I tentatively have it pegged at 45 chapters, maybe, but some will be way larger than others. I’m glad I did it because I now have a pretty clear idea of how this story is going to go. I also added a couple extra characters along the way and it’s going to be a good challenge touching on all of them and doing them justice. I’m looking forward to it.  
EDIT #2, 10.4.2019 - made a quick revision regarding Davos’ departure - I needed him to hang around another day.]


	8. First In Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys passes along unfortunate news to Samwell Tarly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (10.12.2019) In case you were wondering, the title of this chapter is the (semi-formal) canon slogan of House Tarly.

8.

**Daenerys**

As Jon and Daenerys were making their way toward the guest quarters after the meeting, he noticed a figure leaving the library, a stout man dressed in the garb of an apprentice maester, shaggy brown hair and thin beard. The minute that he turned around, Jon recognized Sam and jogged over to envelop his good friend into a bearhug. “Sam! When did you get back from Oldtown?”

“I figured you needed me here,” Sam said as soon as he got his breath back. “Frankly the old maesters down there didn’t seem to believe that there could be anything like the Army of the Dead. I thought I’d be more use up here, looking over some the books I too… _ borrowed _ from the Citadel,” he said, correcting himself as the queen approached.

“Gilly and Little Sam?”

“They’re here,” he confirmed.

Jon turned to Dany, his arm around Sam’s shoulder and pointing to him. “Your Grace, this is Samwell Tarly, one of my former brothers in the Watch. He is the one who learned about the dragonglass in Dragonstone.”

It took everything for Daenerys not to react to the name, even though her breathing paused for a moment. _ Samwell_, she thought, her arms pinned to her sides. “Are you the Samwell who helped cure Ser Jorah Mormont of grayscale?”

“Er, yes, yes, Your Grace,” he finally stammered out. “His father was one of the best men I ever knew, and I regretted not being able to save his life. Saving his son’s life barely begins to pay back everything he did for me.”

Dany surprised Sam again by taking his hands into her grasp. “I need to say that you have done _ me _ a great favor, and in a way that risked your own health as well. Ser Jorah is one of my oldest and truest friends.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

“Sam…” As she contemplated her next words, it was as if a heavy weight had been lain on her heart and chest, so much that she had to catch her breath before continuing. It was noticeable enough that Jon and Sam were staring at her before she could continue.

“Samwell,” she resumed at last, “I must ask you a question. Are you any relation to a Randall and Dickon Tarly?”

Sam nodded. “Randall is my father and Dickon my younger brother.”

Her face fell as she realized what she had to tell Jon’s friend. “Samwell. I regret to inform you that your father and brother are dead.”

To Jon, it felt like Sam’s legs were about to go wobbly as his eyes flew open in total shock. Jon grabbed Sam’s elbow to try and brace his friend, and Sam hung on to Jon’s arm for a moment as he took several gasping breaths. “Dead?” Sam choked out.

“Your Grace, what happened…” Jon said.

“I am so very sorry to have to give you this news,” Daenerys said to Sam.

Bent over, Sam managed to raise himself up to stand fully erect, his gaze burrowing into Daenerys. “What happened?” he said as his voice cracked.

The queen nodded. “Your father and brother had pledged themselves to Cersei Lannister’s service,” she said. “They were part of the Lannister-led host that went to the Reach, invaded Highgarden, and wiped out the remainder of House Tyrell.

“On their way back to King’s Landing, my Dothraki cavalry, dragons, and I caught them out on the open field and routed them,” she continued. “I gave them the choice between bending the knee to me and being executed. Your father and brother were the only ones who chose execution.”

She saw a now horrified Sam whirl and glare at Jon. “Jon had no knowledge of this,” Daenerys said. “He was not on the battlefield…”

“Would you have gone along with this?” Sam asked Jon.

Jon looked totally gutted as he tried to respond to his friend. “I… don’t know, Sam. I really don’t.”

“You don’t _ know_?”

“Sam, they could have just as easily been killed _ during _the battle as after it. We know anything can happen out there.”

“Sam,” Daenerys said quietly, “I understand if you despise me. I can accept that. But I don’t want this to harm your friendship with Jon. This was my decision and mine alone.”

Sam threw his hands up to wave her away, then shook his head and walked a few paces away. He bent over again, head in his hands, and it appeared as if he was trying to keep himself from throwing up. Jon and Daenerys were silent, trying to give Sam space. 

After a couple of minutes of spitting on the ground to clear out his mouth, Sam got up and walked back to Jon and Daenerys. “I might not look like much of one, but I was - I _am_\- a soldier. I know soldiers die in war; I accept it. But there’s no fucking way you’re going to get me to approve of it, and there’s no way I’m not mourning my brother. He wasn’t the brightest man, but he was at least decent to me when we were children.” Sam’s expression changed from righteous anger to nervousness at the end when he finally realized he had cursed at a queen.

Daenerys bowed her head. “I would never ask you to do anything different.”

As he allowed Jon to put his arm around his shoulders, Sam looked up and let out a single laugh. “What’s horrible is that I’m probably going to end up mourning my father too, and that’s rubbish. He hated me ever since I was a child and threatened to kill me if I didn’t join the Watch.” He shook his head. “Gods.”

“My brother was cruel to me growing up and sold me to a warlord who raped me in the beginning of our marriage,” Daenerys said. “My husband killed him before my eyes after my brother tried to harm me. I saw Viserys killed in front of me in the most horrific way and I felt nothing then. And yet I still find myself missing him every once in a while. Families can be strange at times.”

A stunned Sam nodded in response, and was shocked when Daenerys came closer and put her arm around Sam’s shoulder to join Jon’s. “I fear that I will never be able to repay you for all of the services that you have done for myself and Jon,” she said. “I will say that if there is anything that I can do to ease your burdens in any way, you have only to ask for it.”

“Ah…” Sam started, but then paused to wipe away the tears that had built up in his eyes. He continued, even though his voice was shaking. “I’ve got a wi… a… woman, anyway, we live together. Her name’s Gilly, she’s one of the Freefolk. We have a son. Not a thing a proper member of the Watch does, but anyway… I’m terrified for them, Your Grace. I don’t want them to be here when the dead come here. If you can get them somewhere safe, away from the dead… I’ll do anything you want me to, I promise.”

Sam was stunned to see a tear rolling down the queen’s cheek as she patted him on the back. “We are evacuating the children and those who cannot fight to White Harbor, where they will sail to Dragonstone for their protection. We’ll have your family on the first wagon to White Harbor tomorrow.”

“We know the dead can’t swim, Sam,” Jon said. “It’s the safest place for them, and Ser Davos is in charge of the defenses there. They’ll be safe.”

Sam finally nodded. “Thank you, Your Grace. Thank you.” He turned to Jon. “Jon, can you get a message to Horn Hill? My mother and sister need to know what happened, and maybe they can get to Dragonstone somehow.”

Jon nodded. “You give me a message and I’ll make sure they get it.”

“Sam,” Daenerys asked. “You said that you and Gilly weren’t married?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The equivalent to this scene in the series was a little frustrating. I think that all of the actors involved knocked it out of the park (typical for S8), and the writing at least framed the situation seriously and with nuance. However, I felt that they were using this scene as the excuse for Sam submarining Jon with news of his parentage because he was pissed about his family. I never thought that Sam ever had a vindictive bone in his body, and that it was out of character for him. So, I decided to use the reveal as a way to further Sam's character arc and set up his role in the war against both the dead and the Iron Throne.


	9. Rendezvous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the middle of the night, strangers, friends, lovers, and those in between meet, and a ceremony takes place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, thanks for waiting on this if you were. This was a big chapter with multiple POV characters and plenty of interaction. Hope it was worth the wait.

9.

**Jon**

He lightly rapped the door in the guest quarters three times. After a moment, the door opened to reveal Gilly wearing a worn grey dress and shawl, cradling Young Sam in her arms. “Jon, it’s good to see you,” a surprised Gilly said. “Did Sam see you? I was just getting ready to see if Sam was going to settle down for the night…”

“Actually, he did,” Jon said. “Can you come with me, actually? We need to meet with Sam right away.”

Hesitant, she looked down at her son. “Who should we leave Little Sam with, then…?”

“He can come with us. It will be all right… I don’t think this will take long at all.”

Gilly shook his head at the strangeness of it all. “All right. Just a moment.”

“Gilly? Does Sam have his family’s sword with him?” Wordlessly, Gilly nodded in the direction of a blanket wrapped around a straight shape that had to be a sword. “OK, then. We might need it.”

#

“...I never been in a godswood this big before,” Gilly said as Jon escorted her and Little Sam to its entrance, holding her hand in his left hand while carrying Heartsbane in its scabbard in his right.

“This was my father’s favorite place,” Jon said with a smile. “He’d go there often to think, but he never minded it when I came in here to talk with him or even just sit quietly for a while.”

“That must have been nice… oh,” Gilly said.

She saw a group of people gathered around the weirwood tree in the center of the godswood. Sansa stood directly underneath the tree, quite regal in a black, fur-lined long-sleeved dress. To her immediate left stood Samwell, grinning but obviously nervous based on hopping on one foot and then the other. To her immense shock, a silver-haired woman wearing increasingly tricky braids was standing still, whispering something in Sam’s ear. She also saw Lord Brandon Stark off to the right, with Maester Wolkan who was serving as the young man’s taxi service.

Gilly quickly shivered and stared at threadbare nature of her dress. “I wish I had something nicer to wear than this,” she said to Jon.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “The Old Gods won’t care about that sort of thing, and they’re the ones in charge around here.”

As Jon and Gilly approached, Sam and the silver-haired woman approached them. “Gilly, hello,” Sam said, reaching down to pat Young Sam on the head after Gilly set him down on the ground. “This is Queen Daenerys. Your Grace, this is Gilly.”

“Gilly of the Freefolk?” Daenerys said, surprising Gilly. “Sam has told us so much about you. I’m sorry to have to bring you out here so late.” She bent down and beamed at the boy, who was speechless under the queen’s violet gaze. “And this is Young Sam, so handsome.”

“Han-some?” the boy repeated back to her.

“Yes.” She got up and then returned her attention to Gilly. “Sam has been very helpful to me and his friend Jon, including saving the life of my friend and helping find weapons to defend ourselves against the Night King’s army. We agree to help him out with a… proposal of his own.” She gestured for Sam to come forward.

Taking a shuddering breath, Sam got down on one knee in front of Gilly. “You’re the one I love, Gilly,” he said, “you and Sam. We’re a family, and I want you to be my wife.”

Gilly’s breath caught in her throat and she couldn’t say anything at first. “Sam, Sam… yes, I’d love to. But… what about the Night’s Watch? You can’t take a wife.”

“We understand Sam’s situation, which is what he asked Jon and myself help for,” Daenerys said. “In light of his service to Westeros, and services he has agreed to undertake for me, he will be released from his vows.”

“Really? Oh, oh… that’s _ amazing_. Thank you, thank you so much!” She turned to Sam. “Of course I will, Sam. I will marry you.”

Sam got up and hugged Gilly. “Thank you. You are the most wonderful girl, honestly.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“So, when would we get married, then?”

Sam shrugged as they concluded the hug. “Actually, I was thinking now?”

“Really?” Gilly choked out.

“Sam told us that you followed the Old Gods, correct?” Daenerys said.

Gilly was nervous enough that she had to take Sam’s arm as she considered the question. “I think so, even though my father never was the most religious of people.”

“I took my vows to the Night’s Watch in the Castle Black godswood with Jon,” Sam said. “I figured it made sense to end my time with the Watch and start it with you here.” He turned to face her again. “In my heart, you’re already my wife. So, why not get it done so we can go on with things? Go on with… each other?”

After a deep breath, she smiled, her eyes sparkling as she gazed up at the sweetest man she had ever known. “All right,” she said. “Let’s get on with it.”

“Very well,” Daenerys said. “The ceremony is fairly short compared to the Faith of the Seven, or so I’ve been told. There will be a couple additional parts to the ceremony tonight, to reflect Sam’s and your new status.”

“As Lady of Winterfell, I was asked by Daenerys to officiate this ceremony,” Sansa said. “Jon always spoke fondly of both of you, and I’m happy to help tonight.”

“Thank you, My Lady,” Sam and Gilly said in unison, then they looked at each other, chuckling nervously. “Shall we?” Sam said.

“All right,” Gilly said.

Sansa stood just in front of the tree, as Sam took a couple steps up to the right. Gilly, with Jon leading her, stepped up in front of Sansa, with Daenerys standing to the left. 

“Who is this woman who wishes to be wed?” Sansa said.

“Gilly… of the Freefolk,” Gilly stammered out.

“Who is this man who wishes to be wed?” Sansa said. 

“Samwell Tarly,” Sam replied. 

“And who will give this bride away?” Sansa said. 

“I do, Jon Snow, King of The North, friend of the groom and bride.”

Sansa now turned to Gilly. “Do you accept this man as your husband?”

She looked to Sam, then held out her hand to Sam. “Yes, I take this man.”

Sam then walked to stand beside her and take her hand. At Sansa’s direction, they kneeled and bowed their heads in silent prayer. 

When they arose, Sam collected a bright green cloak from Sansa and fastened it around Gilly’s shoulders. “I don’t happen to have a cloak with the Tarly crest at the moment, but this is my house’s color, at least.”

“It’s lovely,” Gilly assured him, “my husband.”

“My wife,” Sam said, drawing her in for a brief kiss. 

“Congratulations, Samwell and Gilly Tarly,” Sansa said, bowing to them. 

Daenerys came forward to stand next to the new couple. “Oh, right.” Samwell said as he reached behind him and accepted Heartsbane from Jon. He dropped to one knee in front of the queen and laid Heartsbane at her feet. Unsure of exactly what was going on, Gilly joined her husband on one knee. They were joined a moment later, to the great amusement of everyone and the queen most of all, by Young Sam trying to imitate his father as best he could. 

“Queen Daenerys, I pledge my sword and my service to you,” Samwell said. “I pledge to be your bannerman and respond to your call. I will support you and your throne now until the end of my days. I swear this… by the old gods and the new.” He gazed up at the queen, unsure if he actually said everything correctly.

Daenerys smiled down at Samwell and waved at him to stand up. “Arise, Lord Samwell Tarly, Lord of Highgarden.” She did the same to Gilly. “Arise, Lady Gilly Tarly of Highgarden.”

Gilly was nearly speechless as she turned to her new husband. “_Lady?_”

“You’re a lady,” Samwell could only shrug. 

Daenerys then leaned down and placed her palm over the top of Young Sam’s head. “And, I now declare you to be Lord Samwell Tarly, heir to Highgarden. You may stand, young one.” 

Now Young Sam jumped up, eyes bugged out at the elegant silver-haired woman before him. “I’m a _ Lord_?”

“A little lord, but yes, a lord you are,” Daenerys explained. 

Sam frowned for a moment as a thought crossed his head. “Poppa, what’s Highgarden?”

“It’s a big, beautiful white castle, in the Reach,” Samwell said. “You probably don’t remember, but we visited your Grandmother Melessa and Aunt Talla in the Reach. Their home, Horn Hill, is not that far from Highgarden.”

“Would we be able to see them there?” Young Sam said. 

“I hope so, but we’ll do that later. Right now, you and your mother will go on another trip, but I’ll be with you soon.”

“Wait, a trip?” Gilly said. “Where…”

Samwell laid his hands on her shoulders, rubbing them and trying to reassure her. “I’ll explain everything when we go back to our room. You trust me, right?”

“We’ll talk later, though?” Sam nodded. “All right. And yes, I trust you.”

“Congratulations to you two,” Sansa said, surprising the couple with a mutual embrace. “I feel horrible not having time to set up a wedding feast for you two.”

“That’s perfectly fine, My Lady,” Gilly said. “We ate perfectly well earlier in the evening, trust us.”

To Samwell and Gilly’s surprise, Sansa opened up a box on the ground and lifted out a small pie. “I understand Little Sam got a taste for apples when he first traveled to the Reach,” she said. “Sam, would you be interested in an apple pie?”

“Apples in pie?” Sam exclaimed in wonder. 

“And some sugar, too. Maybe your mother will let you have a piece or two before bed, hmm? But make sure they have a piece as well.” She handed the pie to Young Sam. 

Bursting with excitement, Sam bowed to the Lady of Winterfell, carefully cradling the pie at the same time. “Goodness! Thank you, My Lady, thank you.” He gave a hopeful look up to his mother. 

“Go on, young one,” Gilly chuckled. “Keep that safe and save a slice for Poppa and me.”

Nodding excitedly, Young Sam started to speed walk back to their rooms while paying close attention to the pie.

Gilly turned back to Sansa. “My Lady, you have been too generous…”

“You are my brother’s close friends,” she responded, taking her hands in her own. “You looked out for him and he you at a time when he was away from his family. I’m truly grateful Sam and you were his friends. I hope perhaps we could become friends as well in the future, My Lady.”

Gilly tried to think of when she might get used to hearing people call her that and could not think of when that would be. “I too, My Lady.”

As Sansa and Gilly continued to talk and Jon walked to Daenerys, Sam heard someone call his name from behind. He turned and Bran was sitting there, waiting patiently. Sam bent down to him. “Yes, Bran?” he whispered.

“After your family leaves for White Harbor, you and I are going to have to talk with Jon,” he said.

“Gods,” Sam said, shoulders slumping. “Right. What about…”

“He’ll be here in the morning surely,” Bran said. “He’s willing to talk to Jon with us.”

“All right,” Sam said. “See you then, I suppose?”

“We’ll meet here,” Bran said.

“Right.”

#

**Sansa**

Sansa walked back by herself to the Great Keep and her quarters and heard a voice say, “A moonlight wedding, I see. It’s been years since mine, and I still remember it.”

Sansa turned to see Old Flint hobbling toward her on his cane, with an unfamiliar figure walking well behind him, hidden in the shadow of the bridge between the armory and the Great Keep. “One of the more enjoyable duties I’ve undertaken as Lady of this castle,” Sansa. “Lord Flint, thank you for bringing your fighting men to us, but I’m also glad you brought your other people to us, as well. I fear how many people might be caught by the Army of the Dead.”

“We appreciate your hospitality, My Lady,” he said. “However, I regret to say that I could only gather twenty fighting men for you.”

“Do not think that,” Sansa said, shaking her head. “Every man is valuable, and we appreciate your contribution.”

“Unfortunately, I have to tell you that I and my two eldest sons and their families will be on those wagons to White Harbor.”

That brought Sansa up short. “Why, My Lord?”

“First, I’m not going to be useful to you in a fight,” he said. “The maesters say I have some sort of disease of the lungs. I may not be alive for more than a few moons.”

She softened at that news. “My Lord, I am terribly sorry.”

“I’ve lived long enough,” he said, waving her off. “Donnel is my heir, and I need to make sure he survives with his family, and my other son Artos has very young children. I want them to be safe and I am going to take the Dragon Queen up on her offer of shelter.”

After a moment of silence, Sansa nodded. “I can understand your feelings, Lord Flint.”

“I’m still going to leave you all of the fighting men I have, save them,” he said. “My boys and their families will go to Dragonstone; I’ll stay in White Harbor and help old Manderly keep the wagons and ships moving in and out. Not interested in dying anywhere except the North.”

Sansa took this all in. _ At least they won’t be part of the undead outside the gates, _ she thought. “Who will you have captaining those soldiers, My Lord?”

“That will fall to my youngest son, My Lady,” he said. Old Flint turned back to the figure in the shadows. “Joren, come out.” As the man emerged from the shadows, Flint said, “My youngest, Ser Joren Snow.”

What Sansa saw was enough to make her take a step back. As the man came into the light, her first thought was _ Father. _

Joren Snow was a shadow echo image of the old Lord Eddard Stark. His jaw seemed a touch heavier than her father, but maybe the thick brown beard overemphasized it. This man’s brow was noticeably heavier, but the resemblance to Eddard, with the brown hair styled the same and his grey eyes, was too obvious. He was younger than her father, obviously, perhaps in his mid-twenties. 

He was dressed anonymously, with no sigil or sign of his highborn status. His hooded cloak, boots, and mittens were black wolf or bear pelt, and he wore a thick black tunic and breeches. He had a simple bastard sword with a plain square pommel, a twin-bladed axe that looked designed for woodcraft than battle, and a coil of rope over one shoulder.

The knight looked up at Sansa, but suddenly dropped his eyes to gaze at the ground, as if there was something he didn’t want to see, his hood now covering his eyes. “My Lady, thank you for welcoming us.”

“Thank you for coming to protect the North,” she said. “Have you and your men found quarters here at the castle, Ser Joren?”

He shook his head. “Thank you for your hospitality, but my men and I will be sheltering in the Wolfswood.”

_Are they mad like the Freefolk? _ she wondered. _ That’s unfair; Gilly seemed perfectly reasonable… _“Ahhh… Ser Joren, would you not prefer some place with hearths and shelter from the wind?”

She could see the smallest of smiles peek out from his beard. “My men and I are woodsmen when not fighting, My Lady. We know how to live off the land well and be aware of it. We’ll be fine out there.”

Ser Joren turned to face the west. “There’s another reason, My Lady. I heard that the lords are expecting the Night King’s Army will approach from the northeast since they come from Eastwatch, or directly north perhaps.”

“Not you?”

She barely saw him shake her head. “If I were the Night King, I’d swing around and come from the west. I’d use the Wolfswood to screen my movements and see if I couldn’t catch some of your soldiers unguarded either on the grounds outside Winterfell or the winter town. My lads won’t be caught off guard, though. We can give you a sign when we see them and run back to the castle.”

_ A clever one. _ “Very well, then,” Sansa said. “How will you let us know if the dead are coming?”

“We’ll figure something out soon,” Joren said. “I’ll talk with you later about it.”

“Good. And Ser Joren, don’t feel like your men have to stay out there the entire time. We might have a meal for you if you get tired of squirrels and beaver.”

“Thank you, Lady Sansa.” He turned to Old Flint. “Father, when will you and my brothers be leaving for White Harbor?”

Old Flint was taken aback by the question. Cupping his chin with his free hand he said, “Good question. Likely we’ll break fast at first light and leave right afterward.”

“Very well. I’ll get the lads set up in the Wolfswood and come back to see you off then. Father, Lady Sansa.” He bowed to them both, then walked for the appropriately named Hunter’s Gate leading to the west.

“See you,” Old Flint called out, then turned to Sansa. “He’s a good lad, a thoughtful one - he’ll help you out here. Gods, I should have thought of it before he did. I’ll have to remember it in White Harbor.”

“My Lord?”

“He realized tomorrow morning is likely the last time we’ll ever see each other,” Flint explained. “Most likely in a couple moons I’ll be dead, or maybe him. Possibly both of us, but most likely me.” He smiled, eyes lit up as he saw Joren exit the gate. “Good lad.” He turned and made his best effort to bow, relying on his cane to get up and down. “My Lady, I’ve taken up too much of your time. Thank you for your hospitality and I bid you good night.”

“Good night, Lord Flint.”

As the old man tottered off to the guest quarters, Sansa wondered about the strange bastard knight who felt more comfortable in the trees than a castle. _ His father made no hint of his bastard status except for his name and the fact that he would fight and his brothers would not. A strange thing. _ Old Flint clearly had affection for him… _ reminded me so much of how Father was with Jon, as children._

Ruefully, she shook her head at those memories. Sansa still remembered how she had behaved toward Jon when they were children. Jon had too easily forgiven her, for which she was grateful, but she had not forgotten her mistakes and never wished to repeat them. _ Whatever his home was like in the mountains, I will do what I can to make sure he is treated respectfully here_. Resolution made, Sansa turned back to the Great Keep for an evening’s sleep.

#

**Gilly**

“I don’t want to leave you, though,” Gilly said as she, Samwell, and Young Sam returned to their quarters.

“I’m sorry, I’m not budging on this,” Sam said as he helped Little Sam into his cot. “I was terrified enough when one White Walker threatened you and him, and I can’t bear the thought of a whole army coming after you. The dead can’t swim, and I’ll feel safer with you two on Dragonstone with Ser Davos protecting you.”

“Daddy, don’t want to go,” Young Sam said. “I want to stay with you.”

“It’s only a little while, and then you’ll come back to me,” Sam said, sitting down on his cot and enveloping him in a hug. “It’ll be a fantastic voyage, it will. You’ll get to sail in a ship on the ocean, see the waves and the water, and you’ve never had the chance to do that before.”

“What’s Dragonstone?” the boy asked.

“It’s an island off the coast of Westeros, and the ancestral home of Queen Daenerys,” Sam said. “She’s letting people stay on the island to keep safe. It has a castle decorated with dragons.”

“Like the Queen’s dragons in the sky?” a clearly impressed Young Sam exclaimed.

“Like that,” Sam said. “Now, it’s only for a little while, but I want you to look after your mother while enjoying the trip. I’ll write to you and will see you back soon.”

Young Sam nodded his assent before lying down. “All right, Poppa. I will.”

As the boy drifted off to sleep, Gilly pulled Sam to his feet to stand beside her. “I still don’t know why you have to stay,” she said. “Look, Samwell Tarly, you are a brave man - braver than you give yourself credit for - and your heart is truer than any man I know. Slayer of a White Walker and Thenn aside, there are many men more capable of fighting than you.”

Sam took her in his arms. “You’re right, but that’s not why they need me. With the books I took from Oldtown, Bran and I are planning to seek out anything we can learn about the Night King. We want to see what we can find out about him that will let us destroy him. Once the battle starts… I’ve been training as a maester and that includes healing skills. There’s going to be many people who need to be patched up and cared for during and after the fighting. _ That _ I’m capable of.”

“I know,” she said, sighing. “And I know you have to serve a queen if she’s given you a holdfast or something. But don’t leave me alone to sort out trying to be some Lady of Highgarden when I’ve got no idea about being a lady. You’ll need to get me sorted out, like you’re doing with Sam.” She cupped his cheek for a moment. “It was lovely of her to legitimize Sam.”

“It was, it was. And, I will help you sort things out.” He looked at the bags at the end of their cart. “We’ll have to pack your things for you and Sam. Lucky we don’t have too much...”

Gilly intercepted Sam as he started to make his way to their bags, hands on his shoulders, and planted a deep kiss on his lips. “What was that for?” Sam laughed nervously.

Gilly had a shy smile as she looked up at her new husband and idly twirled a lock of his hair from right behind his left ear. “Never mind, Sam. We haven’t really got unpacked anyway, so it won’t take a minute or two for that.” She got up on her tiptoes and whispered in his right ear, “Besides, we might as well enjoy our wedding night, right, darling?”

Sam looked over at the smaller of the cots. “Sam…”

“…is dead to the world, look at him,” she giggled. “He won’t notice a thing.” Sam could feel her breath on her neck, and then her lips on his neck just behind his right ear. She felt him shiver in spite of himself, and she knew she had him. “You need to give me something to remember you by, My Lord. It will be a while since we see each other again.”

Sam was overjoyed, staring at her as if she was the only hearth in the midst of a winter storm. “OK, then.”

Gilly grinned as she led Sam by the hand to the other cot. Slipping off her shoes, she stretched out on the cot, easing her skirt’s hem up to her hips and planting her heels on both sides of the bed. As she beckoned Sam to her, he awkwardly took off his boots and pants before climbing onto the bed and then onto her. As he began to slide his hands across her sides and stomach, she slid her dress up to her armpits, not bothering to take it off all the way in her eagerness.

“My husband,” she said.

“My wife,” he answered, before reaching out to gently ease his fingers between her legs.

She knew her husband was not the type of man whose beauty was praised in the bard’s songs. However, there were two character traits of his that made him an excellent partner for her. First, this was a man who was ecstatically grateful for any romantic or amorous attention given him. She remembered the first time she’d made love to him, climbing on top of Sam as he gazed at her as if she was one of the Old Gods who had given him their best favor, or The Maiden of the Seven incarnate. As he was so grateful, he wished to give her the same type of ecstasy that he had experienced when he was with her as a demonstration of his gratitude.

That was where his second trait came in handy. Sam loved to study and learn new things, and he had applied that love of learning to her own body - observing where she enjoyed being touched and kissed and what she was not interested in, making careful note of it for future use. Sometimes she thought he would be able to map her body as well as he could the whole of Westeros and Essos. Now, he was stroking her breasts in circular waves, soft but firm, in a way that always warmed her.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.” It was only after Sam eased himself into her a few minutes later that he bothered to throw his tunic over his head and on the floor, to her uncontrollable giggles.

_ I hope he gives me a child, _ she thought, and her breath caught for a moment, realizing that was the first time she’d ever wished that for herself. Before Sam, there had been her father, Craster, and the horrors that happened with a birth at the keep. Sam accepted Young Sam as his own, but she wanted him to give her children, too. She also wanted Sam not to be alone; he would be a fine big brother to his siblings.

_ I’ll wait for you at the Dragon’s Lair, _she thought to herself as they continued to make love. _ But you’d better make it back. _

#

**Tyrion**

For lack of anything else to do, Lord Tyrion decided to go out for a walk.

Those in the queen’s court that had not yet gotten to bed were busy with other duties and preparations for the work the next day. Even Ser Jorah had decided to meet with his cousin Lady Lyanna for the first time since he had left Westeros, when she was just a small child.

Normally in such circumstances, Tyrion might have simply stayed in his quarters, had a few glasses of wine, and then turned in for the night. However, he thought it might do well for him to take a look around the current state of Winterfell, the winter town, and the camps around the castle. Tyrion never claimed to be a master tactician, but being aware of the army’s circumstances would allow him to give sound advice regarding its needs and defenses.

The winter town expanded in a roughly rectangular shape from about 500 yards south of the castle’s south gate and continued further in that direction. _ More of a defensive liability than anything else, _Tyrion thought. _ The homes certainly won’t serve as a shelter in case the dead attack, and the dead and White Walkers can use the buildings as cover against any arrows or missiles sent their way. _ He made a mental note to talk with King Jon about the possibility of either leveling the buildings or making some better arrangements to keep the dead out. _ Not likely they’ll level the town_. _ As I recall, it serves as shelter for those in the North as winter gets colder, and winter will still be here even if the dead are vanquished. If they’re not, then the status of winter town is useless anyway._ He rolled his eyes at that.

After tracing the outlines of the winter town, Tyrion headed north along the western wall of the castle. The Wolfswood was nearly as close to the walls as the winter town was to it in the South. _ Another issue, perhaps_. Then, he noted just a handful of torchlights about 100 yards into the woods. _ Maybe King Snow has seen what I’ve just seen. I’ll have to ask. _

As he came around to the north wall, he saw the camps of warriors laid out to the north and east. They were mostly Dothraki and Unsullied, with a few hardy Northerners in scattered areas. Despite the sprawling nature of the camps, Tyrion could see open fields reaching into the horizon both north and east. _ There will be plenty of warning that way. Maybe we can put palisades around that portion of the camp. It wouldn’t stop them, but perhaps slow them down enough for arrows and catapult missiles to have an effect. _

It appeared that the warriors in all of the camps had finished their meals and were starting to settle in for the evening. He was considering heading back toward Winterfell when he heard a pain-filled cry with a Dothraki accent from inside a large white circular tent. After two more similar cries, Tyrion jogged toward the tent to see what was going on.

There was an extraordinary scene as he passed through the tent opening. A Dothraki rider writhed on a table in the middle of the table, fighting to get off it but being held down with only partial success by three of his comrades. The one on the table was scrawny and without a beard; if he was past twenty it would be a surprise. Tyrion could quite clearly see what appeared to be a stick jammed into the left side of his stomach, blood oozing from the puncture.

Next to them was a woman with pale-blond hair, wrapped up in layers of Essosi robes over a grey dress, attempting to use a metal tool to grab the stick and pull it out. After two unsuccessful tries, the woman looked up, groaning in frustration, and saw Tyrion in the outline of the tent opening.

“_You!” _The woman pointed with a bloody hand toward Tyrion, her pale blue hawk eyes pinning him down. “Get your ass over here and help hold this stupid boy down.”

It was a voice that did not suffer any uncertainty, and Tyrion responded. Searching around the table for a moment, he found a stool that would give him enough of a boost to get up on the table himself. Realizing it was the only way to be helpful, Tyrion sat down with his full body weight onto the young man’s left knee, wrapping his own arms around the man’s thigh.

He barely managed to keep it down, but it was enough for the Dothraki comrades to hold down his other limbs so they were secure. With a single grasp, the woman managed to grab a hold of the branch and ease it out of the young man.

“Thank the Gods this thing didn’t break inside him,” the woman said, a lilting accent that made Tyrion think of the southern Free Cities of Essos. “_He’s OK, be patient_,” she barked in barely passable Dothraki.

As the bloodriders stepped back, Tyrion got off the patient and hopped down to the ground with the help of the stool.

Peering over the table, Tyrion saw the woman expertly lace in 10 stitches or so to close the wound, then had the young man swallow a small amount of poppy extract. She put a poultice over the wound and wrapped it up tight against his stomach. “_You can take him, but he should rest_,” she said. The Dothraki pulled out a blanket to carry their friend out of the tent with minimal fuss.

The woman looked down on the stain on the top front of her outer robe. “I need to remember to get more dark clothing for this, or some more aprons.” She proceeded to use a water bin and pitcher to get rid of the blood on her hands. “Dothraki aren’t used to riding in the woods. That one got near a tree in the dark and got stuck for his trouble.”

“You’re a healer for the Queen’s Army?” Tyrion asked.

“More or less; ever since they left Meereen, I’ve hitched along with them,” the woman said as she finished cleaning up. “The Unsullied are good patients, the Second Sons were all right, but Dothraki are the worst. Half the time they never even want to admit they’re hurt, much less get treatment.”

She finally turned around to examine Tyrion. She was about the same height and build as the queen, with high cheekbones, and a long neck. However, she wore no jewelry and used a simple leather thong to keep her hair in a ponytail, as well as a linen headband to keep any stray hairs out of her face. She seemed young, but there was a hardness, a crinkling around the eyes, that indicated a more rugged life. _ Valyrian background, perhaps? _ Tyrion thought.

“You’re the Hand to the Queen, right? The one they call The Imp?” She caught what she said and shook her head in minor irritation. “Wait, sorry, you probably prefer not to hear that name.”

“I’ve heard much worse, but I do appreciate your attempt at courtesy,” he said, stepping forward to extend his hand. “Tyrion Lannister.”

After checking to make sure her hand was clean, she accepted the handshake. “Serenei of Lys,” she said, then noticed Tyrion’s eyes widening in shock. “And yes, it’s the same name as Aegon IV’s mistress, but no, I don’t believe I’m a direct relation.”

“Probably for the best,” Tyrion said. “The stories I have heard of her tell of a cold and disagreeable woman, although I would claim my sister would better her in that department. Where did you come from in Lys?”

She grunted as she sat down on another, taller stool next to the work table. “My father was a Volantian sell-sword who died somewhere in the other Free Cities before I could remember his face. Sareena, my mother, was a slave in one of the pillow houses there. She died of a coughing disease when I was 12, and then I took her place in the house for a while.” There was silence in the tent after that last statement. “No comment on that?”

“Heh. If you knew _ my _background, Serenei of Lys, you would know that I would have no cause to look down on any prostitutes, current or former. For that matter, I would not have cause to look down on almost any person.”

“Really? So…” She stopped when he realized what he’d done. “A dwarf telling dwarf jokes, interesting.”

“I’ve heard them all, both good and bad, so I would call myself an expert on them.”

“Indeed. Let me ask you something. First, your brother-in-law was King of Westeros. Then, it was two of your nephews. Then, it was your sister. And yet you are seeking to kick her off the Iron Throne and put Daenerys Stormborn on it. Why is that?”

“To answer that question,” Tyrion said, “would involve a long and winding story, with many detours and twists and turns. Frankly, I was drunk through good portions of it, but ironically wine helps me remember much. I would be willing to tell you that tale if you have time another evening, but I would only tell it if you explained what a former prostitute turned healer from Lys is doing in the North.”

“Mine’s an involved tale, perhaps not as long and complicated as yours,” Serenei said. “I’ll tell it if you can petition the Dragon Queen for some more supplies of bandages and medicine. Are we really fighting dead people up here?”

“Afraid so,” Tyrion sighed. “I’ve seen them myself.”

“Well, I’m not sure we’ll have enough supplies for all of the casualties if that’s the case.” She studied him again. “Would you be willing to petition her?”

“Give me a list of supplies and I’ll speak to her.”

For a moment, the Lysene woman appeared to think Tyrion was joking until he continued to offer his outstretched hand. Finally, Serenei scratched out a short list of items on a scrap of paper and put it in Tyrion’s outstretched hand. “Here.”

“I’ll talk with the queen as soon as possible,” he assured her. “I’ll also mention something to the lady of the castle there. She might be able to help out as well, and I believe I have her ear.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“She used to be my wife - no longer. It was an annulment,” he explained, waving her off, “and that would be at least half of the length of the tale of me becoming Hand. So, perhaps we will have that conversation soon, and perhaps I will bring some wine to help my memory.” He waved as he made his way to the tent opening and waved to her. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Serenei of Lys. I think we will do so again.”

“Lord Tyrion,” she responded with a nod.

As he left the tent and headed south toward the castle gate, he shook his head at the strangeness of the meeting and the entire experience. _ What had happened there? _ he wondered.

Ever since Shae, any purely carnal urges seemed to have fled the former libertine. If he was going to be truthful to himself, any such motivation he’d had fled once he’d seen Shae’s lifeless body on his father’s bed. And suddenly, here he was, chatting with a former whore turned healer from Lys. Tyrion thought back through the entire encounter to see if he had acted improperly or too forward to her, and could not recall any such instance. _ Perhaps it’s best if I do try to form a few new friendships around here, _ Tyrion thought. Friends were hard to find for him, and true friends triply so. 

#

**Arya**

She wandered back into the forge late at night to find the smith there, examining each of the hearths and his tools for some purpose unknown to her. “Are you getting to bed soon or are you stupid enough to keep working until you drop?” she said.

Gendry turned to face her, looking like he was about to curse her out, but pulled back at the last moment. “I’m just trying to figure out what I do have and what I don’t have before the real work starts tomorrow,” he said. “Me and whoever else are going to be on these bellows and anvils are going to have fuck all time to arm however many thousand people living in and outside these walls. My Lady. Apologies.”

She waved him off as she walked to within a few paces of him. “And _ do not _call me My Lady, especially when it’s just us.”

“What _ am _ I supposed to call you, Arry?” Gendry said.

He might have intended it as a joke, but her reaction caught him short. “Sure, why not?” she said, with the smallest hint of a smile. “That name has some good memories.”

That made him realize he was alone with a highborn lady in a forge near midnight, so he decided to do what he could to ease any tension in the air. “So, this is where you grew up?”

Arya nodded. “First 11 years of my life, at least, before my family went to King’s Landing.”

“It’s different from King’s Landing and the Red Keep, but it’s pretty impressive,” Gendry said. “It must have been a cozy place to live, at least if you didn’t mind the cold.”

“So that’s why you’re keeping so close to the forges and keeping the fires burning,” she said.

“I can take the cold when I have to,” he said, rearranging some tools on his bench next to the main forge in an order suitable for him. “I went with your brother Beyond the Wall, didn’t I? I nearly froze my a… froze myself up there, but I still went.”

“Your ass still looks like it’s there, Gendry,” she commented. “Still, it was impressive for a Flea Bottom b… lad, whatever, to do.”

“I remember you talking about how I should come up here, start making weapons for your brother,” he said. “Took me, what, four, five years? I’m here now, though.”

“It’s a different brother now than before,” Arya said. “Robb, they killed him a few years ago. I didn’t see it, but I saw him afterward. They’d cut his head off and they’d sewn on his direwolf’s head onto his body. They were parading the body around on horseback.” The visual came back to her, freezing her in place.

She barely felt his hand on her shoulder until he prodded her. “Arry? Arry? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

With a sad smile, she took his hand off her shoulder and patted it with her own. “You wouldn’t have known,” she said. “That was after the Brotherhood sold you off and the Hound had me.”

“I don’t want to be any trouble to you…”

“You’re _ not_,” she said, still holding his hand in one of hers. “I’m glad I’m back with my family, but… I don’t have really any friends from childhood just sitting around. They’re either dead or scattered to Gods know where. To be honest, you’re probably the best friend I have left around, Gendry.”

“Same goes with me,” Gendry said. “Ser Davos… I guess he’s more of a father figure to me than a friend, but he’s special. And I think Jon is a friend, at least. But yeah, you’re the best friend I have, too.”

She nodded, releasing his hand. “I… I was wondering if you could do me a couple of favors. Since you’re here, anyway.”

“All you have to do is tell me,” he said, leaning back on his bench.

“Is it OK if I come down here to talk with you, at night? My family is good to talk with, but I’m always afraid of scaring them off, with what I am, what I did. I don’t think I’m going to scare you off.”

“You never would,” Gendry said, shaking his head. “Come down any night you want.”

“The second favor is this.” She came toward Gendry and drew Needle from its scabbard. Holding it in both hands, she handed it to him. “You remember this?”

“Yeah,” he said, smiling and examining the detailing on the weapon. “You finally got this back?”

“I took it back,” Arya said. “These dead people. I heard you can’t stop them normally, is that right?”

Gendry nodded. “Fire works against them, and dragonglass. If you have something with Valyrian steel in it, it will kill them, but regular steel hardly affects them. I’m crafting myself a dragonglass warhammer for when they show up...”

“Valyrian steel? Like this?” She pulled her Catspaw dagger out from its sheath. After a few well-practiced flips of her hand, she extended it, handle first, to Gendry.

He gave Needle back to Arya, which she sheathed. He examined Catspaw's balance and design. “Seven hells. It figures a highborn girl like you would have a luxury weapon like this…”

“_You _ don’t know any other highborn girls,” Arya countered, swiping Catspaw from his hands and sliding it into its sheath before he could look up to see… _ is she batting her eyes at me? _ Gendry wondered for a second.

Arya turned around for a moment. “So, regular steel like Needle’s not going to be useful,” she said.

“No.”

“Very well,” she said. “So, I was thinking that you could make a new weapon for me. Something that I could use against the dead.”

“What did you have in mind?”

She gazed outside the forge, into the clear, star-filled night skies to the north. “When I lived in Braavos, I trained with a staff for fighting. I wound up getting pretty good with it. I thought that might be something I could use as a weapon against them.”

Arya turned back to Gendry as she reached inside her coat and pulled out a sheet of parchment. “I made this drawing of what I was thinking about - see if you can make sense of it.”

Gendry took it from her and unrolled it on his bench, leaning over it while Arya looked on from below his left shoulder. The drawing showed a staff with two pikes on each end, apparently made of… “...dragonglass, here?” Gendry asked.

She nodded. “I want them long enough to penetrate well, but wide enough that they remain durable. And, this, here, too.” Arya pointed to the middle of the staff, which appeared to be broken in half.

“You’re thinking that these can be separated, used as separate short spears?”

Arya nodded. “Something with some versatility. Can you make it?”

After taking a minute-long gaze at the plans on the table, he finally nodded. “Aye, I can do this.” he said. “Can you leave this drawing with me?”

“Help yourself,” Arya said as she started to head out of the forge. She turned around. “I’ll need it in a few days; can you manage it?”

“Whatever My Lady commands.”

“Ugh, do _ not _ call me that. You’ll get it done?”

Gendry sported a slowly growing smile as his ice blue eyes stared into the Stark girl's grey eyes. “It’s as good as done.”

“All right.” She scanned the layout of the forge. “Where are you sleeping?”

“In there.” He led her through a battered wooden door to what appeared to be a windowless storage room off the main forge area. There was little in the dirt floor room, with a cot, a work bench on one of the walls with a stool next to it, and a small trunk next to the cot.

She stared at the cot, with a bundle of clothes serving as a pillow and a bear pelt and blankets for shelter. “Are you going to be all right in here?”

“The one forge on the other side of the wall opens up into here, makes it into a fireplace, basically,” Gendry said, pointing to the opening at the bottom on the wall. “I’ll keep a fire going for the night and I’m protected from the wind in here,” he said. “It’s OK, Arry.” His voice softened. “I’m a survivor, just like you, right?”

“Right.” She reached up and patted him on the back of his neck. “But you’ll remember to let me know if you need anything, all right, Gendry?”

“Any time, My Lady.”

“Ugh,” she replied, but she couldn’t help crack a smile at his inside joke. “I’ll see you later.”

“OK, Arry,” he said, as he considered turning in for the night.

#

**Jon**

Jon and Dany strolled through the Winterfell courtyard well after the others had left the godswood. Jon had stood there under the weirwood, staring into the nearby pond as if it had something to tell him. 

After a couple of months of knowing him, Daenerys had begun to have a feel for the Northman’s moods. So, she decided to simply give him time for quiet contemplation, slipping an arm around his waist when she was sure they were alone. He accepted the gesture without complaint. 

As they left the godswood, Dany looped her arm through Jon’s offered one. “Praying to your old gods, Lord Snow?” she asked. “I have to say, compared to most worship I’ve seen, it seems more... straightforward.”

“Maybe a quick prayer,” Jon said, smiling. “Mainly I was trying to think about what advice Father would give me now. It would be helpful if he could.”

“Of course, Jon,” Dany said, her voice so warm and soothing to him. “It’s very understandable.”

He examined the Dragon Queen as she glided across the empty courtyard with him. _ She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known, no question, _ Jon thought, although he sent up a silent prayer in Ygritte’s memory at the thought. _ She was pretty enough, of course. _ His sisters were beautiful in their own way, but they had grown up family and he could not look at them in that way. Cersei was a classic beauty for sure, one the painters would be eager to capture, but her bitterness and lack of empathy were evident to him even at 16.

When he’d first seen the woman across the Dragonstone throne room with the silver hair, violet eyes, and willowy build, with a grace and ease of movement that seemed effortless, it got his attention. 

Her actions got his attention as well. As much as her followers deferred to her, she never stopped caring for them or looking out for their benefit. She was at ease when he was unsure of himself. The more he learned about her, the more he found herself drawn to the queen. Learning that she was the same age as him - 23 - was merely one more thing in common that they had.

Both of them looked out for their own people, and both didn’t consider acting honorably to be a bad thing. Both of them knew what it was like being an outsider, Jon due to his bastard status and Dany due to being an exile from her homeland, always trying to find her way back to a land that she didn’t know. And, there was the shared point of view of their world, realizing that the old ways weren’t perfect and that there could be a better way to live and to rule than what had come before. She’d given him the whole speech about breaking the wheel in Westeros, one night in bed aboard the ship taking them to White Harbor. Whereas Tyrion had been skeptical, Dany had won another convert, wholly separate from their romantic attraction. But each had fed into the other.

At first, he hadn’t acted on any instincts, preferring to be a noble ally and friend rather than a prospective lover. But both had been lonely for true romantic companionship for too long, and there were too many commonalities for them to ignore. Jon now saw the knock on Dany’s cabin door as inevitable.

“So, I can take you to your guest quarters if you like?” Jon said.

“To be honest, I’d rather have a tour of what the King of the North’s rooms are like,” Daenerys said. “I’m wondering how many quilts I’m going to need.”

“Winterfell’s actually quite warm,” Jon said. “The castle sits on a hot spring, and the water circulates around the inner walls. It’s actually quite comfortable, even in winter.”

“Quite amazing…” Dany’s voice trailed off as she heard the _ huff _ of heavy breathing and a white shape underneath one of the overhangs next to the Great Keep. “What is _ that_?” a clearly unnerved Dragon Queen asked.

Jon turned to see what she was pointing at and broke out into a wide grin. “It’s the sigil of my house, Your Grace.”

“Pardon?” she replied, now with a firm grasp on his arm and shoulder.

He held up a hand to reassure her. “Just before I left for the Night’s Watch, I was riding in the forest with my brothers and Father. We came across a direwolf who had died at the same time she’d given birth to a litter of pups. We though there were five pups - one for each of the truborn children - but there was one last runt that I got.

“Most of them are gone now, but they were all good boys and girls who served my brothers and sisters well. Two are still alive - Nymeria, Arya’s direwolf, now runs with a pack somewhere in the North. Let me introduce you to the runt.” He beckoned to the white shape. “Ghost!” he whispered. “Good to see you. Come here, I want to introduce you to someone.”

She was awed by what came into the moonlight. It was a white wolf, an apparition of white whose fur reflected the moonlight from above. He was at least as tall as her shoulders and maybe her head. He casually loped over to the couple, his bright red eyes fixed on the new person.

“This is the _ runt_?” Daenerys said in what was nearly a squeak. “Gods, this is unbelievable.”

“Says the woman who rides a fire-breathing _dragon_ into the skies,” Jon said in disbelief. “Come on, he wants to meet you.”

Ghost came to a stop right in front of the couple. Nervously looking over at Jon, who reassured her with a nod, she bent down and reached out to the direwolf with her right hand.

There was a long moment, at least in her head, as the massive predator eyed Dany from head to foot. Finally, Ghost took a few exploratory _snorts_ of her hand. Before she knew it, the massive canine was rubbing its head alongside her stomach, tongue out and panting, and wrapped the rest of its body around her waist. Ghost looked up at her, still tongue out, with the silliest of expressions that she could not help to laugh at the sight.

“Oh, he _ definitely _ likes you,” Jon said, grinning.

She turned back to him, eyebrow raised. “Well, at least I know where you got that expression from now.”

Jon’s mouth fell open at that, and he had to chuckle to himself. “Well played, Your Grace.”

He started to lead Dany to the Great Keep but saw that Ghost was following them. “What, boy? You want to keep warm by the fire? You’re getting soft in your older age, boy.”

Jon looked at Dany as if to apologize, but she patted him on the shoulder. “I suppose I should be thankful that my children are too large to fit into a room. It will be interesting when he meets Rhaegal and Drogon.”

“Hopefully they’ll get along.”

“If they all like me, I’m guessing that there’s hope,” she said.

#

After he snuck her into the room without any prying eyes around, Jon made sure that the fire in the hearth was well on its way before turning to his queen. “I think that should do it,” he said. “At least, it will be going for a while.” 

Daenerys saw Ghost curl up at the foot of the large bed, immediately in front of the fire. “Was this your father and stepmother’s room?” she asked.

Jon shook his head as he gathered some extra wolf and bear pelts and piled them onto the bed. “I gave that room to Sansa,” he said. “Since she is the Lady of Winterfell and looking after things while I’m out fighting the enemies of our house, I thought it was only fair she had it.”

“So, this room is…”

“Robb’s, actually. This was his room,” he said, looking around.

“The King in the North before you,” she said, now making her way toward him.

“Aye,” he said, sitting down on the bed. “He was a good man, a fine man. So much pressure on him, to measure up to Father as the oldest of us. What was mad was, he did. He was exactly like our father. He was an honorable man, and a natural leader of men. And for all of his efforts, and for the love of a woman, he got killed.” He slumped forward.

She came to sit down next to him and draped an arm around his shoulders. “You loved him.”

“Without question,” he said. “I would have died for him, but I was on the other end of the continent when he needed me.”

She took his chin in her hand and turned him to face her. “You are _ not _ responsible for his death,” she said. “You were at the Wall trying to protect humanity from a greater danger than who rules Westeros. And there’s no guarantee that he would be alive even if you were fighting with him side by side.”

“I still miss him, though.”

“Of course you do.” She stood up and turned to stand directly in front of Jon. “When you are like this, I want to take all of your pain away.” She smiled at him as she caressed his shoulders. “I know of one way that a woman can take away a man’s pain. Is that what you want?” she asked, her expression full of mischief.

After a moment of silence, Jon nodded. When it came to Daenerys Stormborn, his pride and his restraint were nowhere to be found. “Yes, I do. I swear it by the old gods and the new.”

“Good. Let us chase away the darkness, Jon Snow. At least, for a little while.”

With that, she leaned down to kiss him, and he rose to kiss her back, the woman well in his arms as they explored each other. “All right, then,” Jon said, coming up for breath for just a moment.

She slipped off her boots as he loosened his tunic. Dany flexed her now bare feet on the floor as he flung his tunic over his head and next to Ghost. He flung his shirt over his head and next to Ghost as well, then concentrated on unfastening her clothes.

As he got her dress loosened and dropping to the floor, she was exploring his already naked chest with her own lips and touch. There was the jagged scar directly above his heart, a symbol that he had once no longer been one of the living, and the other stab marks on his torso. 

As she kissed that scar, Daenerys considered the lovers she’d had before and how their fighting styles mirrored their personalities. Drogo had been power and strength, a brutal attacker with surprisingly sophisticated skill. Dario has been economic in his fighting, not wasting a single movement for decoration or style. Jon was a whirling dervish of speed and agility, with a deep well of endurance and energy. His frenzy in combat was just as or even more overwhelming as the power of other fighters. It also said something of how they made love, as well. 

Her dress was off and he now fumbled with the fastenings of her smallclothes as she ran her hands over his shoulders. She loved the play of his muscles underneath his skin and the odd bit of scar tissue, much more defined whipcord than massive slabs. “You are almost too skinny now, Your Grace,” she joked. “You need to stop skipping meals and keep up your strength.”

“I’m grateful that I have a woman of Your Grace’s quality concerned for my well-being,” he grinned as he finally slid the last of her clothing down her bottom. 

“Heh. Now. If you would actually start listening to my advi… _Seven Hells, _” she gasped. 

Before she had realized it, Jon had dove to his knees in front of Dany and with no ceremony buried his face in the soft mound of darker curly gold hair between her legs. “What are you doing?” she managed to choke out. 

Jon seemed out of breath as he pulled his face from her lap and looked up. “Seeing to _ your _ wellbeing, Dany.” He then returned to his work. 

Her knees felt unsteady and her feet constantly shifted as she tried to keep her balance. However, with her keeping one hand on his shoulder and one on his head, and his own hands on each cheek of her buttocks, she managed to stay upright. 

He experimented, probed, teased, with both lips and tongue. She tried to guide him with her hand, whispering “That. _ That,”_ every time he did something she especially found pleasing. 

She had been so focused on staying upright and what Jon had been doing that she didn’t pay attention to the rumbling, warm tension spreading from her center throughout her body until it was almost upon her. Before she realized what was happening, spasms of pleasure flowed over her, catching her off guard.

“Oh… oh… _ Fuck_!” she screamed, swaying back and forth until she found herself leaning over on top of his head before steadying himself. 

Jon looked up at Dany, who was still feeling aftershocks of her orgasm. Her face and the top part of her chest were flushed pink, from either the sex or total mortification or both. “So, was that good?” Jon asked innocently. 

Taking in a deep, shuddering breath, she nodded in disbelief. “I usually don’t say… _ that _ word, let alone scream it.”

“It _ was _ good,” Jon said with a hungry wolf’s grin. 

“Ugh,” she grunted in mock exasperation. She pulled Jon to his feet and, after a moment’s hesitation, kissed him squarely on the mouth. “That was lovely, but I need you now.”

She flung the covers off the bed and rested on her back, easing her legs apart as she took Jon by the hand and pulled him to her side. “Come here, Jon.”

As he clambered on top of the bed and between her legs, she looked up at him. “Someday this might seem routine to you, Your Grace.”

Her breath caught in her throat as he took her left foot in his hands and laid a soft kiss on the sole. “You are many things, Your Grace. _ Routine _ is not one of them.”

“Enough talk.” With a groan, she reached out and took hold of him and guided him inside her. In her state, there was no difficulty in entering her. 

For her joke to Sansa about Jon’s height, she found that being nearly the same height as her lover had advantages. When she was on her back and he on top, their faces were close enough that kissing each other during the act was easy. He enjoyed having all of her body in easy reach of him, and she enjoyed the feel of him laying skin to skin, on top of each other. 

He tried to keep a steady pace, but her excitement and his own caused him to speed up. As he slid his hands across her breasts, she wrapped her arms around the back of his neck, and for good measure wrapped her legs around his waist, locking her ankles together. 

After a couple of minutes of frenzied activity, she felt another orgasm rippling through her. “Oh… oh…” she called out, tightening her grip as she shook with spasms. 

Jon felt the spasms coming through her walls, and then there was a surge of pleasure in himself that he had no chance of holding back. “Dany,” he moaned as his own spasms kept in time with hers and he felt his own release. 

After a long time joined together and still, Jon finally slid out of her and lay down on his back, pulling her on top of him. “I usually want it to go longer than that,” he said. 

“No matter. It must have been good, at least. It was wonderful for me, I know.” As she looked down at the foot of the bed, she saw Ghost had his head propped up on the bed, observing the entire coupling with what appeared to be the mildest form of curiosity. 

“Enjoying the show, boy?” she laughed in disbelief. Shaking her head, she reached down and pulled the blankets over them. “Well, at least the cold hasn’t been a problem.”

“This Freefolk friend of mine, Tormund Giantsbane, I once heard him say that fucking was the best way to keep warm Beyond the Wall. I think he was likely right.”

“_Giantsbane,” _she said. “He sounds like an interesting character.”

“He is. Hopefully you’ll meet him someday.”

“In the meantime, then, we’ll continue to follow his advice.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, there was a lot to unpack here, but I want to try and touch on it. 
> 
> 1\. This was a big stage-setting chapter. I wanted to show the gang settling in to Winterfell and considering both the severity of the task that they face regarding the dead and what will come afterwards if they survive. 
> 
> 2\. I wound up introducing two original characters in this chapter. Ser Joren showed up in my previous fanfic, The Return of The Pack (my GOT epilogue “fix”). I realize the name sounds like our favorite Care Bear (he obviously was not in ROTP), but just do your best to keep ‘em straight.  
3\. Obviously, both Joren and Serenei of Lys are going to be interacting with Sansa and Tyrion. However, I plan to make them significant characters in their own right without interfering with the character arcs of our OGRRMCs (original GRRM characters). We’ll also see that both Joren and Serenei have their own motivations for being in Winterfell as the dead approach.  
4\. Shoutout to Longclaw_1_6 for keeping on me about Jonerys content. It was coming, eventually. In addition, you got some bonus Samwelly action and Gendrya buildup. I’m hoping to write all of these relationships in a way that will seem real and emotionally deep. Better than the 2D’s at least.  
5\. After the events of this chapter, I decided to change the rating from mature to not rated because I was tired of debating whether what I was writing was mature or explicit. There’s going to be sex, so make of that what you will. It’s not going to be massive violence.  
6\. The next two chapters are going to be bears for sure. Someone’s identity will be at the center of those chapters, and I want to make sure that is handled right.  
Tell you what - I will guarantee this next chapter comes out in a week if I get at least a dozen comments, mine not included. I’m interested in how many people are reading this, but I’d likely be doing this anyway.  
Until later...  



	10. You Know Nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As his brother makes an unexpected apology, The King In The North learns his true parentage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here we go - the big reveal of Jon's identity. I was hoping for a dozen comments, but we got close, everyone, so you get to read this tonight. Enjoy.

<strike></strike>10.

**Bran**

The small men in green rode up south from the Kingsroad a couple of hours after dawn.

He saw them in his mind long before they appeared in the courtyard, of course. He also _ felt _ them as they got closer – more accurately, he could feel the presence of their leader. Bran could tell that a wide range of emotions washed over him at one time or another – nostalgia for Winterfell and what it represented to him, sadness at the loss of friends, and righteous anger at a wrong that he had caused. He mentally prepared to weather that storm when it came. _ I deserve it_, he thought.

For the amount of activity around the castle, the courtyard was not crowded with people. With the amount of people that would be leaving for the trip to White Harbor that day alone, Sansa had the teamsters load the people onto the wagons after they had brought whatever supplies they had to the castle stores. So, Samwell Tarly was just outside the South Gate saying good bye to his family, along with many others.

He saw Sam making his way through the gate just a few minutes before the green men arrived. “They’re on their way?” Bran asked him as he walked up behind him.

“Oh, yeah,” Sam replied, trying to sound as cheery as possible. “The goodbye went well, all things considered. They’ll be safe at Dragonstone, won’t they?”

“I believe so. From what I have seen, there will be good sailing weather. And, from what I have seen, the Iron Fleet has not made any attempt to sail out of King’s Landing yet.”

“Incredible,” Sam said, shaking his head. “You could almost put the whisperers out of business, I think.”

“Almost,” Bran said. “I’m a greenseer, not some god or even half-god. I can’t see everything all the time." He looked toward the gate. “They’ll be here in a minute.”

Soon, a group of 40 riders dressed in green tunics, cloaks and breeches entered the courtyard. With one man at the head, they headed straight for Bran and Sam.

The leader dismounted and threw off his hood. He was slightly shorter than Jon, stockier than he had been in his youth, but still light on his feet. His dark hair and beard were sprinkled with grey, and his green eyes fixed on the youth in the wheelchair. “Brandon Stark,” he said. “There’s no chance of mistaking you for someone else,” as he gestured at his chair.

“Lord Howland Reed, welcome to Winterfell,” Bran said. ‘Thank you coming so quickly. My sister, Lady Sansa, is helping direct supplies coming in to the castle from outside the Great Keep. If you see her, she can arrange for quarters for your men.”

Lord Reed turned to one of his captains. “Go ahead,” he said. “Lord Brandon and I have business. Lead the way.” The man took the lord’s horse, and he and the men made their way to the keep.

Sam started to push Bran’s chair toward the godswood, with Lord Reed following to Bran’s right. “My Lord, this is Lord Samwell Tarly, one of my brother’s advisors and a former comrade of his with the Night’s Watch,” he said.

Howland examined the heavyset young man who appeared to be wearing a maester’s robe, but no chains… “Tarly? Randyll’s son?”

“Yes, My Lord,” was Sam’s subdued reply.

“Hm. He’s dead?”

“Yes, My Lord.”

Howland responded with a grunt and a nod. “Not the most pleasant man, if I remember, but I am sorry for your loss.” He turned to Bran before Sam could stammer his thanks. “Can we talk around him?”

“Lord Tarly knows of this matter,” Bran said. “He actually brought my attention to it, not the other way around.”

“How – never mind,” he said, looking around behind them. “Best wait until we’re alone.”

#

“Like a tiny part of the Wolfswood plucked down in the middle of the castle, amazing.” They were at the far wall of the godswood, away from its entrance and from any nearby guard towers. “OK, now that it’s us… Tarly, you said you found something?”

“When I was studying with the maesters in Oldtown, I came across the diary of a septon from King’s Landing,” Sam said. He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his robe as he came from behind Bran, unsure of what to do or how to carry himself in this situation. “It recorded the marriage of Rhaegar to Lyanna Stark. Rhaegar remained married to Elia - it appeared Rhaegar believed he should have two wives as Aegon the Conqueror did.”

Howland let a barking laugh that he cut off with a hand to his mouth. “Trust a southron septon in love with records to keep something like that around. So, you told Brandon?”

Bran nodded. “I had a vision of Lyanna meeting with my father for the last time, and how you and my father fought the Kingsguard, but I had thought he was a bastard, Jon Sand or something. It wasn’t until Sam told me of the record that I looked back and saw the wedding ceremony.”

“Difficult to find something out there if you don’t know what you’re looking for, eh?” Howland said.

“Yes. And I also saw my father promise my aunt to protect her child, to protect Jon.” Bran now stared at the crannogman. “But that’s not news to you. You were one of the men that accompanied my father to the Tower of Joy to rescue Lyanna, and you and he were the only ones to survive.”

“Aye, I saw all of it,” Howland said, nodding, his eyes to the ground and fists clenched to his sides. “Your father swore me to secrecy, of course. And I agreed. Your father was my friend. Lyanna was also a friend - she once rescued me from three squires attacking me at the tournament of Harrenhal, did you know that? Wielding a sword just as well as any southren Ser, I can tell you that. It was the same place where she met Rhaegar... I didn’t want her child in danger. If Ned could throw away his reputation for being an honorable man for the sake of a child… keeping a secret was nothing compared to that. 

“I believe he would have eventually told Jon the truth, but he ran out of time,” Howland concluded. “Now, no matter what happens, your br… Jon, he has to know the truth, and do what he will with that knowledge.”

He turned to Sam. “Lord Tarly, I think it is time that we bring Jon here and tell him who his true parents are.”

“Samwell, I think that we will need to bring Queen Daenerys here as well,” Bran said. “Given the… implications of his parentage regarding succession to the throne, we cannot make it seem like we are hiding anything from her.”

“A sensible precaution,” Howland said. “We can’t be feuding with the dead coming to the door.”

“In addition, my brother and the queen have… become very close,” Bran added reluctantly.

The crannogman had to shrug at that. “Oh, perfect. Well, they are Targeryens, aren’t they?”

“Yes, perhaps they _ are _aunt and nephew, but it’s not like they were raised as family, were they?” Bran said with a sudden vehemence. “It’s different than it was with the old Targeryens or with the Lannister siblings. For example, the story we know means that Jon is my cousin, not my brother. But he was raised as my brother for our whole lives. That does not go away because of a story.”

“I understand,” Howland said. “I understand. Samwell, go ahead and fetch them. The young lord and I need to have a conversation before they get here.”

Samwell looked down at Bran with more than a touch of concern. Bran patted him on the arm to reassure him. “Go on, Sam. We’ll see you in a while.”

With one more look at Bran to allow him reassurance, Samwell took his leave and went to find the king and queen. After Samwell disappeared in the trees, Howland turned back to face Bran. “So, I have some things to ask you, young Brandon,” he said, his mood darkening as he stepped closer to him.

“Of course. Ask.”

“When my daughter returned to Greywater Watch, her sadness was clear to me. Part of that, obviously, was the death of her brother. However, part of it, I believe, had to do with her final conversation with you before leaving this place. I would ask you to explain yourself.”

“What do you want me to explain, My Lord?”

Howland used every inch of his height to loom over Bran in his chair, filling with righteous outrage over what had been tormenting him for weeks. “You and Meera had gone through many experiences, suffered greatly and beside each other, and… in the end, she had great affection for you. And you said farewell to her as if she was a _ servant! _” he said, practically hissing the last word but keeping his voice low to avoid any from overhearing.

Howland turned away for a moment to pace, hands clasped behind his back. “I do not put the entire blame on you,” he said. “You are still just six and ten, and my daughter now twenty. She should have more sense than to rely on the affections of a boy.”

Howland had been told by Meera of the young man’s apparently unemotional affectations, but he was surprised to hear a wavering voice respond, more nervous boy than unearthly seer. “I swear to you, My Lord, I do know those affections, but I was desperate for her to leave this place, and I was willing to do anything for that to happen.”

Howland turned to Bran and saw tears spilling from the corners of his eyes and him clinging to the armrests of his chair with both hands. “If that was true, lad, then why send her away from you?”

“My Lord, the _ dead _ are on the march to this place, and they are coming for me in particular,” Bran whispered as Howland came closer. “Your son lost his life trying to protect me, and Meera would feel obligated to do the same. I couldn’t risk having both your children die for me. I needed her to be safe.”

Howland took a deep breath to collect himself before continuing. “I understand your feelings, lad. But, in tough times, it’s good to have the people we love close to us. Protecting them is what we do. And for Meera, you were a friend, and… in the end, you were becoming more than that. It’s why you sending her away tore at her heart so much.”

“I reali... realize that,” Bran said, as he took in a big, shuddering breath. “And she was becoming more than a friend to me, even though I never admitted it. But I realized it could never work. It was more of a kindness to break her heart now than later.”

“What are you talking about?”

Bran stared at him in disbelief, tears now coursing fully down his cheeks. “Beg your pardon, My Lord, but do you not have eyes?”

“What?”

Bran gestured down at the large wheels of his chair. “How would I be a proper husband to a woman, even if I wanted to? How could I even be a father to a child running free sitting in this chair, with or without wheels? A woman would deserve more than that.”

Howland bowed his head for a moment, at a loss for what to say or what comfort to give not the Three-Eyed-Raven, but the inconsolable boy whose form he shared. He finally shook his head as he came to stand next to him. “Oh, lad.”

“I couldn’t do that to your daughter, not after every other thing she’s lost,” Bran whispered. “I couldn’t do it.”

“From what Meera had said, how she described you at the end of your time together, she suggested that you might have lost who you were when you accepted the mantle of the Raven. Now I see that you are still inside there, Brandon Stark.” He placed a hand on Bran’s shoulder, trying to reassure him. “There is a young man in there, one with a sense of self-sacrifice your father would have appreciated. But that wasn’t your decision to make alone, lad. If you had these fears, you should have shared them with her and let her decide whether you could be a proper match for her.”

“And yet you had her stay in Greywater Watch while you came to Winterfell, Lord Reed,” Bran said, raising an eyebrow. 

“There was no purpose of having her face you without knowing whether she faced more hurt feelings coming here. Besides, I needed her to keep an eye on the Neck with the other crannogmen to watch out for any forces the Lion Witch sends,” Howland said, shrugging. 

“And with the effect of keeping the dead away from her,” Bran said, his skepticism clear. 

Howland winced as he knew the jig was up. “All right, I was happy to see her home, at least. But you need to talk with Meera about this…”

“I already have.”

Howland did a double-take at that. “Wait, how?”

“A few nights ago, I encountered Meera in my dreams. It’s not as… reliable of an ability as my greensight, but the nature of the dream made it clear that we were truly speaking to each other. Perhaps you should send word down to the Neck and ask her yourself.”

“Assuming you are correct, what did you say to her?”

Bran looked away, the memories flooding back. “I wasn’t able to say much in the time we had, but I did express my regret with how we parted. She… seemed to sense my true feelings.”

Howland crouched down so that his eyes were level with his, tapping Bran on the shoulder. “As much appreciation I have for the ancient secrets and magic of our land and your good intentions,” he said, “it’s not a replacement for meeting face to face.”

Bran turned back to him, resolved. He nodded. “You are correct. If I survive the Army of the Dead, I swear I will go to Greywater Watch to meet with her.”

“Old Gods willing, both of us will.” He stood up. “Now we’ll have hard work ahead when Jon shows up, I think.”

“At the least,” Bran said, and he needed no greensight to see that.

#

The first thing that Bran and Howland saw and heard over the treetops was the streaking forms of Drogon and Rhaegal skimming over the walls and the rumbling shrieks of their dragonsong.

Howland stood his ground but was suitably impressed. “They appear to be in lively spirits today, I guess.”

“They do seem happy,” Bran said. “I… hear them in my mind sometimes. I think they are going west to hunt.”

“I imagine they’ll eat whatever they come across,” Howland said. “And speaking of dragons… their mother approaches, and gods know who else.”

It was, in fact, a pack coming to them under the weirwood. Samwell walked alongside Jon, who had Daenerys at his other elbow. Trailing them were both Sansa and Arya. All of them were some mixture of concerned and confused, except for Samwell who trudged along projecting a sense of dread.

“Bran, what’s going on? Sam said that you had something to tell me and Daenerys,” Jon said. 

“And the whole family, I suppose,” Bran said with a wry smile.

“We were right there when Samwell asked them to come, and it looked like something that seemed very serious,” Sansa said.

“The way he looked, it was almost like he was going to tell you that the dead were going to be here tomorrow or that they’d signed a pact with Cersei,” Arya said, only half in jest.

Howland snorted at that and stared long at her. “Did your father ever say you reminded him of his sister?” he said to Arya.

Arya was puzzled as she stared back at the stranger in green. “He did once or twice, but he never spoke of her much to me.”

“Trust me, My Lady, you would more than just remind him of her if he was here now.” He collected himself and then knelt before Jon and Daenerys. “Apologies, My Ladies and Your Graces. I am Howland Reed, Lord of Greywater Watch.”

Jon’s eyes brightened in recognition and offered his hand to the crannogman as he rose. “Lord Reed, welcome,” he said. “My father talked much about you and your friendship.”

“Haven’t got up to Winterfell in many years. Thank you, Your Grace. I’m here to offer myself and some of my scouts for your service while my fellow crannogmen, including my daughter, Meera, continue to watch the Neck for signs of visitors.”

“Lord Reed, apologies for interrupting,” Daenerys said, “have your sentries seen any signs of any troops approaching The Neck?”

“Not as of yet, Your Grace, no armies, Cersei Lannister’s or otherwise. However, we received ravens from the Knights of the Vale just before we left that more of their number was coming in a couple of days.”

“Thank you for your assistance, My Lord,” Daenerys said. “However, I get the feeling that was not why you wished to speak to Jon and I.”

Howland nodded and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, trying to find some comfort. “No, Your Grace, you are correct.”

Bran broke in. “Jon, what we have learned, in talking with the three of us,” as he indicated Howland and Sam, “is that we have figured out who your mother was.”

All eyes then in the godswood, maybe even the ‘eyes’ of the weirwood, turned to Jon as he appeared to lose his balance for a moment and have to steady himself by grabbing to Daenerys’ shoulder. “You have? Who… who is she? Is she alive?”

“I’m sorry, Jon, she’s not,” Sam said, as now Daenerys used her arm around his waist to steady the overwhelmed Jon as Sansa and Arya turned to each other to confirm each other’s shock. “She died giving birth to you. But to explain who she is, what happened, I’m going to have to tell you a story to put it all together.”

Sam nodded, then moved away from the rest of the group so he was able to speak to all of those present at once. “The story involves Robert’s Rebellion and the reasons for it,” he said. “It might not seem at first to have anything to do with you or your birth, Jon, but trust me that it eventually have everything to do with it and it will give you a deeper understanding of the matter.”

Jon finally stood up unaided, but he appeared at a loss for words, until; “All right, Sam. Go ahead and tell it.”

Sam felt all eyes on him as he began. “The way that the stories tell it, it started, or, at least, everyone first heard about it, at the great tournament of Harrenhal. Rhaegar Targaryen won that tournament after a final joust with Ser Barristan Selmy.” The mention of her former protector, the kind older knight she remembered, caught Daenerys off guard. “When it was over, Rhaegar gave the title of Queen of Love and Beauty not to his wife, Elia, but to Lyanna Stark. _ That _ was controversial, not just because of the crown prince’s existing marriage, but also because Lyanna was already betrothed to Lord Robert Baratheon.”

“It was right after that my brother took Lady Lyanna and fled,” Daenerys said.

“And then, first Jon's uncle and then his grandfather went to King’s Landing to ask for Lyanna back,” Sam said. “Instead, King Aerys executed both of them and asked for the heads of Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark. Lord Jon Arryn revolted to protect his charges, and the rebellion was on.

“Lord Eddard journeyed to the Tower of Joy to find and rescue Lyanna on behalf of Robert,” Sam continued. “After they fought the Kingsguard there, he and Howland Reed were the only survivors.”

“And Lyanna died at the tower, didn’t she?” Sansa said.

“Yes, she did,” Howland said.

“I know Father and our aunt are involved, but what does this have to do with Jon?” Arya asked.

“The story we have heard, the story that Robert told, was that Lyanna was kidnapped against her will by Rhaegar, likely raped by him,” Bran said. “That is not the case.”

Jon’s jaw dropped at that. “What, Robert lied to our father, lied to our family and everyone else?”

“I don’t know whether it was a lie or if Robert had convinced himself it was the truth,” Sam said. “Likely we’ll never know. But, when I was looking for information for you, about the White Walkers, I came across… well, actually _ Gilly _ did - a septon’s diary that recorded his wedding to Lyanna.”

“They got married?” Jon said.

“It seemed fantastical, but then I tried to look back into time to see, and it did occur,” Bran said. “Lyanna willingly married Rhaegar. They were in love, even though Rhaegaar still wanted to remain married to Elia as well.”

“When Lord Stark reunited with his sister at the tower, she was dying, not from wounds, but from childbirth,” Sam said. “As she died, she asked him to promise her that her baby would be safe. He took the baby with him and claimed him as his own. Jon, that was you. Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark are your birth parents. She named you Jaehaerys Targaryen.”

Jon, Dany, Sansa, and Arya stood there in stunned silence for a long time. It was as if the name Sam uttered seemed to lay there in front of them, no one wanting to acknowledge it. “It can’t be,” Sansa said.

“Bran,” Jon finally managed to croak out, “did you see this? Is it true?”

“I did see it, through the greensight,” Bran confirmed. “However, I’m not the only witness that was there.”

Jon and everyone’s eyes turned to Lord Howland. “I saw the whole scene with Ned and your mother,” he said, speaking to Jon. “Your mother treasured you, and her last wishes were not for herself, though she feared death, but your own safety. She made him swear that he would keep you safe, and he swore it no matter what the cost.”

Jon slumped to his knees as Dany came behind him to comfort him with her hands on his shoulders, despite her own bewilderment. He finally turned his stricken gaze to Lord Howland. “He lied to me, all of these years. Why would he lie? Why the falsehoods, even at the cost of his own honor?”

“It was not to preserve the kingdom or Robert’s rule, let me be clear,” Howland said. “His only concern was to protect you. He knew the fate of Rhaegar’s other wife and their children – your half-siblings. Her Grace here and her brother would have been struck down as well if Robert had the chance. Even the fact that you were Lord Eddard’s nephew by blood would have not protected you from his hatred. Robert and his family could never know your true identity.”

“That’s why he claimed you as his own. In a sense, he adopted you as his own son,” Bran said.

Jon turned to face him, almost affronted. “_Adopted? _What are you joking at?”

“Father took you into his home and claimed you as his son,” Bran said. “What else would you call that, Jon?” Almost automatically, Jon found himself nodding to Bran.

Arya hurried to Jon and dropped to her own knees in front of him, taking his hands in hers. “That’s good enough for me,” she said to him. “None of that changes that you were raised as my brother. You are family, regardless, but you are my brother and I am your sister, now and always, to the end of my days.” She looked up at Sansa. “_He’s our brother_.”

“Of course you are,” Jon said, enveloping Arya in an embrace as Dany continued to rub his shoulders.

“You are our brother,” Sansa said. “Father acted as your father all of your life; _ that _is what counts.” Sansa and the other siblings saw Bran nod his head at Sansa’s statement.

“Thank you, all of you,” Jon said. “Thank you, Dany. But, I’m not just a Stark, I’m… something else, too.”

“I thought I was alone in the world, all these years,” Jon heard Dany say, and he ended the hug with Arya to turn toward the queen. “I thought that I was the last of House Targaryen, and now I find out I’m not. That’s... _wonderful_. You are the last living son of my brother, and…” She stopped speaking for a moment as a realization suddenly came to her.

It was Bran who vocalized it. “As his trueborn son, you would be Rhaegar’s heir for…”

“_No_,” Jon said, in a low but rumbling voice. “_NO_. I barely wanted the crown of the North, and you’re saying I’m the heir to the Iron Throne? That’s nothing I ever wanted.”

Dany’s eyes narrowed the tiniest amount, as she realized her assumptions about her place in the world as up in the air. “As the heir of my eldest brother, you have a better claim to the succession than me.”

“_The Others _ take the succession,” Jon said. “You’re the one who prepared for being a queen, a ruler, for years of your life. I only properly prepared to be a member of the Night’s Watch, not be Lord of Winterfell, not King of the North, and certainly not the ruler of the _ bloody Seven Kingdoms!_”

He got up to his feet and walked over to Howland. “M’lord, why did he never tell me, at least? Why not?”

“He never told Mother the truth, Jon,” Bran said. “He was that dedicated to keeping a secret.”

Where he once felt dread in dealing with the Lady Catelyn Stark, now Jon felt a surge of sympathy for the woman. To have mistrusted her husband and to go through so much pain for a lie… “The last time Fath… Lord St… _ Father _ and I talked, as I left for the Night’s Watch, he promised that he would tell me the name of my mother the next time we met… but it didn’t happen…”

“I believe he spoke the truth to you that day,” Howland said. “As a member of the Night’s Watch, you would have had no inheritance, whether it would be Winterfell, the North, or the Seven Kingdoms. He must have felt it was safe to tell you once you had taken your vows.”

Jon’s single laugh barked out of him. “Well, that plan fell through, too, didn’t it? Wonder if my death canceled any inheritances…” He trailed off into muttering chuckles, shaking his head.

Daenerys then walked up to him, reaching up to touch his cheek. “Jon…”

He reached up to her hand on his cheek and for a brief, horrifying moment, she pictured him grabbing it and flinging her touch away, running away from her. Instead, he covered the hand with his own, and then put his other hand on the back of her neck. He closed his eyes, trying to concentrate on her touch, how it felt, and how it felt to touch her in turn.

Jon patted her hand as he opened his eyes. “Thank you all for your concern and love. I am grateful. Samwell,” he said, turning his head slightly to meet his gaze, “Thank you and Bran for telling me this. Gods help me, but I needed to know the truth about this. Sam, did Gilly leave already?”

“Yes, Jon,” he said, nodding.

“Good. Lord Howland, thank you for coming here, and being a friend to… my father.” He released himself from Dany’s embrace and turned in a partial circle to see everyone. “I need to be alone for a while,” Jon said. “I _ will _ be back, I promise.” He leaned over and kissed Dany on the forehead, then repeated the gesture to all of his siblings. When he was done, he turned and strode out of the clearing and away from the godswood.

They all stared at his departing form in silence. Sansa, her hand over her face, was surprised to feel Arya hug her from behind. “Look on the bright side. It’s not like it’s unheard of for Targaryens.”

“_Arya,_” Sansa whispered fiercely, seeing Dany still standing alone and stricken in the center of the group. “Please.”

“Not like _ our _ family’s immune to it either,” Arya replied. “One of our ancestors married two of his daughters to two of his half-brothers, right?”

Dany turned to Sansa for confirmation. “That’s true,” Sansa said. “Your Grace, please… I sense Jon cares for you and your feelings. Please, give him some time to absorb this. Gods know I do.”

“You don’t disapprove of… _ us_?”

“Do you?” Sansa asked.

“I spent the first sixteen years of my life believing I was going to marry my brother, the only family I ever had,” Dany said with a wry smile. “Right now, the prospect of being romantically involved with a nephew I never knew was one… it really doesn’t matter, everything considered. I’m just amazed because I thought I was alone before… but now I’m not.”

“You weren’t alone before. Your Grace,” Sansa said, disentangling herself from Arya to walk to the queen. “My brother’s childhood was not always happy due to bei… _ thinking _ himself to be a bastard. I did not help matters with my actions, and I have been trying to make up for them ever since. _ You _ seem to make him happy, so I will not stand in your way. Just… give my brother some time. If he cares for you as you believe, he will come to you.”

With a deep, shuddering sigh, Daenerys nodded, then looked up to the skies. “My children are out hunting. I should wait up for them, perhaps.” She bowed her head to Sansa. “We’ll meet this evening, I think, along with the others.” With that, the gathering broke apart for the time being.

#

**Jon**

Jon was oblivious to the activity in the courtyard of Winterfell as men and women moved new supplies into the castle and even more were arriving and encamping outside the walls. He only had eyes for the opening to the Stark crypts.

He was soon in front of the statue of his father… or uncle, or father, whatever he would say. But Ned Stark had been the living, breathing presence in his life; Rhaegar Targaryen was simply a name in a history, the subject of a song about the Ruby Ford.

He looked to the right and he saw the statue of Lyanna Stark, his mother. The face on the statue was not clearly chiseled; he could see that she had the long face of his fellow Starks, and kind eyes… _ what color had they been? Grey like his, like Arya’s? It would make sense _... His hand brushed the cheek of his mother’s statue, wishing for a mother’s touch that he’d surely had only at birth.

After what seemed like an hour and what might have actually been one, Jon returned to face Lord Stark’s statue and knelt before it. _ All my life, I was consumed by the facts of my identity, Father. And now, I learn that those facts were a lie. You were always good about teaching us lessons, Father, both your trueborn children and myself. What lesson did you intend to teach me from this? What lessons did you wish your trueborn children to learn? _

He collapsed forward as the tears coursed down his cheeks. _ If you have a lesson for all of this, Father, I am willing to hear it. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a few items:
> 
> 1\. In effect, this chapter winds up becoming something of a Season 7 fix in that it finally deals with why Brandon was so weird with Meera at the end. Since I'm trying to write someone that is both the 3ER and Bran, I thought the confrontation Howland had with him had far more emotional impact and dealt with some of what Bran's true concerns might be.
> 
> 2\. I deliberately decided to have Sam and Bran break the news to the whole family all at once. It made sense since this news affected everyone that was there (Dany, Sansa, Bran, and Arya, minus Sam and Howland). It also eliminated the problem 2D ran into when they didn't want to have three different reaction scenes at once. 
> 
> 3\. In addition, having Dany hear the news at the same time Jon did makes it clear that a., he had no idea this was true, b., he genuinely did not want to usurp her position as queen, and c., that there is some hope that Jonerys is going strong (hint: it will soon be).
> 
> 4\. I am still leaning toward 45 chapters for this story, but I am holding off on setting that in stone because I am still revising how the main story will go. 
> 
> MINOR SPOILER
> 
> I decided to change how one plot point involving the Faceless Men shook out, but you won't see that play out until the very end.
> 
> 5\. Next we will see how Jon deals with it. As much angst as is in Jon's character, he's not going to wallow in it for long, and the example of his father is going to give Jon a unique perspective on how he will deal with his identity. 
> 
> 6\. I should mention that Howland's line about there was no mistaking who Brandon Stark was (because he was in a wheelchair) was a shout-out to the Vikings TV series and Ragnar Lothbrok recognizing his crippled son Ivar the Boneless after years away from home. I love that series.
> 
> 7\. I retconned Rhaegar and Elia's annulment and decided that he wanted to be married to both women. I never got why he would set Elia aside (he never seemed like a cold man to his family) so it sounded like some 2D BS, so that is the main thing I retconned. It's my story, I get to write it the way I want. :)
> 
> 8\. I have decided to have Jon's original Targaryen name to be Jaehaerys Targaryen instead of Aegon like the show. This is of course regardless of the 2D's writing and whatever GRRM decides in the end. My reasoning:  
\- Obviously, Jon has a half-brother already named Aegon.  
\- Especially in this retconned version of the story (Lyanna was going to be a second wife to Rhaegar alongside Elia, not replacing Elia), Lyanna would not want to do anything to disrespect Elia and her children by Rhaegar. She would have chosen a different name.  
\- Even with the caveat that his half-brother Aegon is dead by the time Jon is born, there is almost no chance Lyanna would know that for sure, being kept in the Tower of Joy and not in the best of health due to her circumstances.  
\- I could easily see Lyanna wanting to name her firstborn after the most enlightened ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, Jon's own ancestor. Also, it would make sense for Ned Stark to give his son a name (Jon) that would share the same first letter as his true name.
> 
> So, I am editing this story to give Jon the new Targ name. Let me know if I missed an Aegon reference or whatever in one of the chapters.  
I have to give credit to a post on Reddit's r/freefolk that convinced me to make the change.
> 
> As always, comment and tell me what you think. I definitely dig all of it.


	11. A Dragon Alone In the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon, his family, and others deal with the revelation. Jon looks to the past to decide his fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone,
> 
> I was surprised I got this chapter done when I did. It wound up being so big I had to essentially slice it in half, so Chapter 11 and 12 were originally going to be merged. I think you'll be glad that didn't happen in the end.
> 
> So, this will now tentatively be 46 chapters, and tentatively is the operative word here given what happened with this chapter.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy.

11.

Jon Snow spent the next 12 hours after learning his identity on his knees in the crypt of his ancestors and parents, conversing with them, asking their advice. In the meantime, those that knew of the secret dealt with it in their own ways.

**Daenerys**

“So… Lord Snow had no idea?” Missandei said.

Daenerys shook her head as she petted first Drogon and then Rhaegal in turn in the open western field just outside Winterfell. “The King in the North is capable of many things, but falsehoods and lying are not his specialties,” she said. “He looked gutted at the news, betrayed perhaps by his own father.”

“Apparently his father was better at lying than he was,” Tyrion said, chuckling as he drew his winter cloak around himself. “Gods know he fooled me, surely.”

“Your Grace, I must ask you something,” Missandei said, taking Daenerys’ hand in hers. “The King in the North seems an honorable man, but… may his family be seeking to conspire against you, threaten your claim to the throne? This news could be a way to do that.”

Tyrion winced and shook his head. “It is good that you are considering such threats, but I doubt it in this case. If they sought to conspire against you, Your Grace, why did they insist on you hearing their news at the same time Jon learned it? Why insist on letting you know at all, the better to surprise you with their treachery? Did they even insist that you keep this information to yourself?”

Daenerys shook her head. “Not directly, but I am sure they do not wish this to become known to all at this time.”

“Once more than a handful of people know a secret, it is no longer a secret, but information,” Tyrion said. “This is information that will inevitably spread, and have an impact on people. We will have to plan for what will happen.”

“Jon’s family might not conspire against you, but perhaps other supporters of theirs might be tempted to do so,” Missandei said.

“More likely, the Northern houses might think Jon may no longer be a true Stark, despite the fact that, given the story is correct, he’s a trueborn son of a Stark woman, and until very recently, he never even _traveled _outside the North,” Tyrion said. “Your Grace, do you believe the truth of the story?”

As she saw Rhaegal crunching the bones in the carcass of a wild boar he’d caught, she walked to Drogon and brushed his snout, receiving a thrumming, happy hum in response. “Jon often said his father would reveal nothing about his mother, even though he would get very upset at Ned for it when he was younger,” she answered. “He also told me once that he would never talk to him about his dead sister Lyanna, and barely mentioned her to anyone except Arya occasionally, since she reminded him of her. Of course he would never talk of those women to Jon. Because they were the same woman.” 

There was silence all around except for the dragons as the trio absorbed the logic of Dany’s words. Finally, Tyrion broke the silence. “We’ll have to meet with Jon, to talk about this.”

“He’s not talking to anyone right now,” Daenerys said. “Apparently he’s been… thinking, praying, whatever, in his family’s crypts, next to his father… next to his mother for that matter. None of his family has seen him either.”

“Will he come to the meeting tonight?” Tyrion said.

“I’m not sure; I hope so.” The queen turned to Missandei. “I know the dragons are finding the cold somewhat… inhospitable. Is there any way we can make some shelter for them, out here? At least a shelter from the wind?”

“Perhaps, my Queen?” she replied.

“Missandei, I think the queen would appreciate you being with her at the moment,” Tyrion said, patting her on the arm. “I will check with Sansa to see how the shipments and evacuation are progressing.”

“Thank you, my Hand,” Daenerys said as he bowed before walking back to Winterfell.

Daenerys now turned to Missandei, who was frowning at her dragon children. “These two are going to need quite a large shelter or longhouse to properly shelter them.” Missandei said. 

“Maybe we won’t have to,” Daenerys said, turning back to Drogon and Rhaegal. “Are you up for a ride?”

#

**Gendry**

He hustled through the chaos of the Winterfell forges, making sure the new workers knew their duties and what order the weapons were to be built. Luckily there were a good number of smiths already at Winterfell and from the other Northern houses arriving, and a few from the refugees already starting to stream in. If they avoided getting in each other’s way, they might have the entire army equipped with dragonglass weapons in maybe a week if they were lucky. 

He stood over a work bench with some drawings of potential weapons, including something the crannogmen who had just arrived at the castle had, a three-pronged affair they called a frog spear. Examining it, Gendry thought that it would be only a slightly more complicated endeavor than the Unsullied’s spears. 

“Gendry.”

He looked up from the table to see Arya there, hands to her sides, bereft and looking lost. “Arya? Is something wrong?”

She shook her head wordlessly, but now she was hugging her sides and shivered slightly. He swerved around the table to take her by the arm and lead her off to the side. “Come on.”

He led her to the door of his room, out of the gaze and hearing of the others. “Arya, what’s the matter?”

It was then that she leaned against his chest. He found himself encircling her with his arms, holding her up. Her hair smelled like pine needles and the forest, familiar to him in years past, when they bunked down in different places, during those months on the road. After a few quiet moments, she looked up at him, plainly stunned. “It’s Jon,” she said. 

“What happened? Is he hurt?”

“N..no, not that. Something… it’s so strange… something to do with my father.”

She raised her head from his tunic and stared at the activity inside the forge. “Seven Hells, you’re busy,” she said. “I should let you get back to work…”

“Forget that,” he shot back. “You’re upset…”

“It can wait, it can wait,” she said, patting his chest. “Look, after dinner, tonight, I’ll come here. We’ll talk then. You want me to bring some food for you?” 

Gendry had no idea what to think, but nodded. “Sure, if you like.”

“All right, I will. Sorry I interrupted your work.” She looked around to make sure no one was looking. “Thank you.” She hesitated once, twice, and a third time, but finally stood up on her tiptoes and reached around the back of his neck with both hands. 

Her kiss was unexpected, soft upon his lips, but unsure as she fumbled for a moment with how to not bump their noses. It lasted for just a couple of seconds, but he would classify it as being more than _friendly_.

“Thank you,” she whispered, a nervous smile on her face. She turned and scooted out of the forge before he or she could say any more. 

_What in Seven Hells was that? Guess I’ll find out tonight…_ With a shake of his head, he got back to work. 

#

**Sansa**

She sat at a table set up outside the Great Hall, meeting with the teamsters that went in and out of Winterfell, coming in with sacks of grain and other supplies and leaving with hordes of people for the voyage to White Harbor. So many people to keep track of, and so little time… _if they knew what was coming, they’d be hurrying ten times as quickly as they are_, Sansa thought to herself.

Bran sat there next to her, helping to keep track of everything, as the day stretched into the afternoon. “It’s working better than you expected, I think,” he said.

“Is there a way that you could magic all of these people to White Harbor?” Sansa said.

“I’m sorry to say, no,” he said. “I’ll try to keep my eyes out, though.”

She patted him on the shoulder. “Thank you. This Lord Howland… he’s the father of that girl who brought you here?” Bran nodded in response. “Did she… mean something to you?”

“I didn’t want to admit it... but yes,” Bran said. “I’ll deal with her after all this is over.”

Sansa remembered the young woman, a rough-hewn type with curly dark hair and green eyes. “She reminded me of Arya, in a way.”

“_Anyway_,” Bran said, closing off the conversation, “I think _you_ have a visitor.”

Sansa looked left to see her former husband walking up to their table. “How are you holding up, My Lady?” the Hand of the Queen said.

Sansa narrowed her eyes at the Lannister. “The Queen told you?”

He bowed in acknowledgement. “She did. Are you all right?”

“Bloody Seven Hells, _no_. Part of my childhood has been revealed to me to be a lie, and I ostracized a member of my own family for _nothing_. So no, I have not been all right.”

“I understand.” Tyrion nodded. “Missandei is helping the queen with something, so she asked me to assist you with the supplies...”

“I appreciate your assistance,” Sansa said.

“I am here to serve you, and my queen.”

“Thank you.” She saw a familiar figure from the previous night approach the table from the west. “Speaking of those who serve...”

Ser Joren Snow walked up to the table. “My Lady, my men are all in place among the western edges of the Wolfswood.”

“I am glad to hear that, Ser,” Sansa replied. “I should tell you Lord Howland Reed’s crannogmen are making their way to the north of this castle. They intend to give us early warning of the dead from their positions.”

“Yes, I know of the crannogmen,” Joren said. “They are skilled in scouting and being rangers, too.”

“What would you say of our positions to the northeast?”

“There is plenty of open space there,” Joren said, “so those with spyglasses might keep watch. Is there not also a holdfast just north and east from Winterfell, My Lady, at least one abandoned? Perhaps some men and women could occupy it, serve as an early warning to you.”

“Perhaps,” Sansa said, seeing the old abandoned holdfast in her own mind. “Are your men ready to signal if the Dead are coming to attack?”

“They are ready, m’lady,” Joren said. “We have settled on a signal. It will be three flaming arrows loosed at once, in a W shape. That will tell you that the Dead are coming.”

“Good. I am glad. Will you join us for dinner tonight?”

“I think we will be fine, My Lady,” Joren said. “However, perhaps you would like to visit _us_ some evening, in the trees where we have made our camp. We would be willing to host you for dinner some evening.”

“Perhaps I will accept your offer,” Sansa said. “But, how will I join you in the trees?”

“There are such things as ropes and ladders, M’lady,” Joren said. “I will leave you for now. Let me know how else I can be of service.”

“Of course, Ser Joren.” Sansa said. They both bowed to each other, and the mountain knight took his leave.

“He reminds me somewhat of your father,” Tyrion said.

“_Anyway_,” Sansa said with a _harrumph_, “you said you would help me keep track of all of these people?”

“Of course, My Lady,” Tyrion said, walking behind the table. “Of course.”

#

**Daenerys**

Flanked by Missandei and Grey Worm on one side and Ser Jorah on the other, the queen entered the Great Hall, filled with the Northern lords examining the updated maps on the long table. Led by Sansa, who was with Bran and Arya, they stood up as she walked into the hall. “Your Grace,” she said as she came to her. 

“Lady Sansa, hello,” Daenerys responded. She leaned over to her and whispered, “Have you seen Jon?”

Sansa shook her head. “Not since… Hopefully he does, it’s like we’re all waiting around for him…”

The nobles turned to see Jon walking with a noticeable stiffness into the room. “Sorry for my tardiness, lords,” he said.

“Your Grace,” rung out from the crowd as Jon approached.

He greeted his siblings with pats on the back and a nodded “Your Grace” to Daenerys. “Pardon me for sitting down, but I think I was kneeling for too long today.”

“Spending time in prayer and contemplation, Your Grace?” Lord Glover said. 

“Something like that,” Jon said. “Where are we?”

Sansa, Jorah, Lord Royce, and the others reviewed the plans underway at Winterfell. To Jon’s surprise, he heard Arya report on her and Brienne’s efforts on weapons training for the smallfolk who were able to fight. 

With just a day since Jon and Daenerys arrival in Winterfell, the reports were brief and the meeting soon ended. “Sansa, I’ll see you and the others later. Your Grace, can I speak to you alone?”

“My Queen, is it…”

“It’ll be fine, Missandei,” Daenerys said, grasping her friend’s hand for a moment. “I’ll see you later.”

As Daenerys’ court and Jon’s siblings filed out of the hall, she came to sit down in a chair next to him. “Hello, Jon,” she said hesitantly. “Do you want to talk here?”

There were dark circles under his eyes, and he was somewhat haggard, but there was a smile for her at least. “I want to show you something. Will you walk with me?”

“We’ll walk past your kitchens first,” Daenerys said, and Jon felt her hand stroking his back. “It looks like you’ve gone without food too long.”

“All right,” he said, agreeing to be taken care of. 

#

With a package of bread and cheese from the kitchen, Daenerys followed Jon, torch in his hand, as he led her down the passage to the Stark crypt. 

“Are these all the old Kings and Wardens Of The North down here?” she said. 

“I think there’s statues for all of them - Bran The Builder’s is down that passage.” He looked around at the rows of statues in all directions. “We keep having to add in new levels of the basement to hold them all.” 

“They seem to be the ones on guard in this place…” She trailed off, seeing Jon in front of the statue of a hard-faced man with long hair, a sword in his right hand with the point facing down. “Your father?” Jon nodded, placing the torch in a nearby holder on the walls. “I never saw him in person, of course. Is this how he truly appeared?”

“Heh. The people of the North are not quite well-known for their artisans,” Jon said with a chuckle. “This does not exactly match up with how he appeared… but it has his essence, I think. I’m not as sure about the other one, though.”

He pointed to a statue to the right of Lord Eddard’s. It was a female figure, with long hair worn in the Northern style, a long-sleeved dress, and a face that was more a blank mask than the features of a living woman. “This is Lady Lyanna?”

He nodded again as he approached it. “Lord Howland said that when she was grown, Lyanna looked much like my sister Arya, the way she does now. I wonder if that had something, something unconscious, to do with our bond. Maybe a little.

“She must have been a formidable woman, for the depth of Rhaegar and Robert’s feelings toward her,” he continued. “When Robert visited here at Winterfell, after a month’s journey on the Kingsroad, the first thing he did was come down here to see this statue. She’d been dead what, 15, 16 years? He overthrew an entire dynasty for her because he thought he was in love with her, and my birth father fought a war and gave his life for her. Unbelievable.”

Dany crept up to his left side, electing not to try and hold his hand or attempt any other sort of physical affection for the moment. “Is this why you wanted to bring me down here, to talk of your parents?”

“Only in part.” He now turned to face Dany. “Do you know why I touched you, reached out to you, in the godswood after Sam and the others told me the news?”

Dany shook her head, puzzled at the question. “You… wished to comfort me?”

“Perhaps, but I must sadly confess I had another motive. I wanted to see if I would be repulsed by your touch, given what I had learned.”

The memory of that morning came back to her, of Jon’s eyes widening and rapid breathing as the moment dragged on. “You _did_ feel that repulsion?” she managed to choke out.

“I was fearful because I did _not_ feel that repulsion, nothing like it.” He reached up with both hands and ran his fingers through his hair, in a nervous motion. “Whatever is said about morality and the practices of _both_ of our families, you were not raised as my kin, and I did not know you as such before we met.

“This is the strangeness of custom and law,” he continued. “By the customs of Westeros, it would be more acceptable for me to marry Sansa or Arya, since they are my cousins by blood. But, I could never contemplate that, because they were raised as my sisters, and my sisters they will always be. However, there might be hesitancy in accepting you as my wife, because you are my aunt by blood, despite the fact you were never raised as such, to yourself or to me. You are not family to me because you share my blood.”

Horror rose up from her gut to her throat. “I’m not family…?”

“You’re my family because I love you,” Jon jumped in. “I’m in love with you as a man for a woman, for us to be partners in this world. Yes, I have the blood of the dragon, the same as you. We both have ties to the Iron Throne of the Seven Kingdoms. Those are things that do bind us together.

“But that’s not the reason I’m in love with you,” he continued. “I fell in love with a woman who has endless compassion for those less fortunate, someone who is brave even when she wishes she weren’t, someone who shares my love of justice and honor. We both see how the world as it is could work better. And now, we’re in a position that, even though I didn’t ask for it, we have power to do something about it.” As she tried to absorb all of what Jon was saying, her nerves left her and she ceased hugging her arms to her chest. She focused on what he said about love above all.

Her breath caught for a moment when he placed his hand over her cheek. “I have to admit one other, less noble reason for my interest in you. You are easily the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Perhaps that explains my _desire_ for you rather than love, but…”

“The most beautiful woman you ever met,” Dany said, a wry smile forming despite herself and her surroundings. “I thought you never favored flattery, Your Grace.”

“I favor the truth, Your Grace. And there’s no one who has come close to your beauty. In many ways, I feel outclassed by it, that someone like me has your eye.”

He saw her brush her hand over his left shoulder. “I believe, Jon, that I have the advantage over you in… romantic experience, or at least sexual experience. You think yourself plain, but I see nothing plain in you. And how you have been in bed… I believe you have _ruined_ me for any other lovers, the things we have done compared to my past. _Many things_. I would always compare them to you.”

She now held both his shoulders as she drew him closer to her, so they were face to face. “So, you would still wish to be with me as man with woman?

His response was to take hold of her face and draw her in for a kiss – a simple one, not probing or fierce, but with warmth and the promise of more ahead. “I do.”

She patted him on the shoulder before breaking off the embrace, and starting to pace along the corridor. “I’m glad of that, at least,” Dany said. “However, it does not solve the problems we face due to the facts of your birth and the duty of both of us to our houses and our people.”

“I’ve been thinking plenty on that,” Jon said, turning to face her as she paced. “It’s been all that I’ve been thinking about since the godswood. And the more that I’ve thought and pondered, the more I’ve realized that I’m about to make the biggest decision of my life, right here and now.”

That froze Dany in her tracks, as she turned to him. “What decision?”

“Every decision that I have ever made, or that has been made on my behalf, has led to this point,” Jon said. “Everyone that I have ever loved, befriended, fought, or killed has led me to this place. The decisions of both my fathers and my mother, the lessons that my father Lord Stark taught me, then and now, all of it has all led here, to a decision between love and duty.”

“Two fathers… but yet one mother?”

He shook his head. “As I said, my Northern father’s wife had no interest in raising someone she saw as a bastard. Given… what she faced, I cannot blame her for her feelings, especially since my father, for whatever reason, did not choose to confide in her. I’m not looking back on that. I had more love than most.”

“This decision you speak of, does it involve your name?”

“In part,” Jon said with a nod, and then _he_ began pacing, in front of Lord Stark’s statue. “Dany,” he began, “I have to admit something to you. You are not the first Targaryen I ever met.”

_That_ admission threw Dany off her moorings. “What, how?” she said. “Did you run across Viserys in the Free Cities, traveling with your father…?”

“Aemon Targaryen, maester of Castle Black on the Wall, brother to King Aegon V Targaryen,” Jon said. “Your… great-great…_great_? …uncle, I believe.”

Now curiosity overwhelmed her at the news, and she came to stand in front of Jon to stop _his_ pacing. “Tell me about him.”

Jon nodded. “By the time I began my watch at the Wall, he was near the end of his service with the sworn brothers,” he explained. “He was very old by then, without his sight, but he had the greatest of hearts. His mind remained razor sharp right up to the end of his days... and other than my Northern father, I never knew anyone wiser.”

“He sounds like a truly great person,” Dany said.

“Indeed. I wish he were still here – he would have been overjoyed to meet you. He always cared for his family, even while serving on the Wall. The clash between love and duty.

“We talked about that clash, in the days after Lord Stark’s death,” he continued. “’Love is the death of duty,’ I remember him telling me. He said duty is always easy when there is no cost to a man, but a terrible choice when that devotion to duty runs up against our affections for our families, our loved ones. Aemon made that choice when he stayed at the Wall rather than trying to save his loved ones, even though by that time there was little that he could do for them. My father made it when he traveled south to King’s Landing, to serve his friend the King.

“I always thought that whenever my father was faced with that type of choice, I would know what he would decide,” he concluded. “But now, after I heard the tale from Sam, Bran, and Lord Howland, I realize I was mistaken. My Northern lord father has given me one final lesson from the grave.”

They were now close to each other, their hands on each other’s arms above the elbow in a loose embrace. “What was that lesson, Jon?”

“My father was the sworn sword of Robert Baratheon, bound to carry out his orders,” Jon said. “By his duty, he should have brought me to his king, for him to… dispose of. That is what would have happened to me, as it did for my half-siblings and their mother. But as he held me in his arms, he made a different choice. He chose love and family. And I lived.

“Rhaegar Targaryen fell in love with another man’s bethrothed, a woman who did not share the affections of that betrothed but those of Rhaegar,” Jon said. “However, they chose love and family, as well.”

It seemed so easy when he put it in those terms, but part of her held herself back. “I do not wish to argue against you, my Jon, but would Rhaegar and Lyanna not likely be alive if they had followed their duty?” 

“And I would not exist,” Jon said with a soft chuckle. “I’m not sure that is a winning argument for me. If my father had not claimed me as his own, I wouldn’t have lived far beyond my name day. There’s a chance _you_ might not be alive if not for my father’s advice to King Robert not to have you and your brother killed in your cribs, as much as Robert wanted that to happen.”

“It’s easy as that? Follow your heart, stand for and with who you love, and all will be well in the end?” Dany said in disbelief. 

“My fathers didn’t die because they followed their hearts or were deluded by love of women or family,” Jon said, reaching over to cup the side of her face. “Both of them made very specific mistakes that had nothing necessarily to do with love or duty. But I’ve learned from them as well, and they have informed my decision.”

“If I did not recognize your voice, I would think that Lord Varys was attempting to give me advice,” Dany said as Jon’s eyes widened in mock horror at the thought. “I’m joking,” she said, patting his arm, “but it’s interesting seeing my Northern man thinking of politics for once.”

“My Northern father did not think of politics when he traveled to King’s Landing and he died as a result,” he said sadly. “Father always said to learn from our mistakes. Now I am learning from his.”

With a sigh, she nodded and drew closer to him. “What mistakes did my brother make?”

“First, he and my mother should have been clear about their intentions with each other. My uncle was so furious with Rhaegar that he was ready to duel with him by the time he entered King’s Landing. Because they were silent, Robert was left to either guess the worst… or maybe even hide any message they tried to get out and make up his own story, though that sounds more like something Littlefinger would attempt. It would have been a fine way to get his revenge on my uncle for losing Lady Catelyn to him. A shame I couldn’t dig up his corpse and question it,” he concluded with nervous laughter.

“The second mistake, then?”

“When my grandfather _did_ kill my other grandfather and uncle, Rhaegar was torn between his new family, old family, and his loyalty to his father,” Jon said. “He tried to protect them all, but in the end he lost them all. What he should have done was used the unlawful execution as proof of his father’s madness and deposed him. Then, he could have gone to Lord Eddard and explained the situation. My Northern father would have understood. In another time, I think they would have been friends.”

“It makes sense,” Dany finally said. “But to save one family, he had to betray his father, if he did what you suggested.”

“Yes. That’s why I’ve done everything to make sure our pack is united, to fight the dead first, and then Cersei.”

“_I’m_ a member of your pack?”

“Of course.”

She arched an eyebrow in response. “You’re the one who’s part wolf, Jon, not me.”

“OK, then,” he responded, exasperated, “then you’re part of the pri…, the herd… what in Seven Hells _do_ they call a group of dragons?”

Dany reared back cackling, her body shaking with laughter so much she had to suck in a few great breaths of air before finally recovering herself and steadying her stance with a hand on his shoulder. “Ohhh, my. Well, there were many names for it, at least a half dozen in Old Valerya. A flight of dragons was one of those, and it was used in Volantis, as well. The Dothraki call it a thunder of dragons for how loud they could be.”

“Well, flight, thunder, pack, herd, whatever, you’re part of it. And we all look out for each other. ‘The lone wolf dies but the pack survives.’” My family has accepted you, I think. That will grow as time goes on.”

“Your Brandon seems half with the ancients as much as he is in this world, but since he can see into my thoughts, I guess, he can trust me. Your little sister thinks I might be Visenya reincarnated. I had worried about your eldest sister, but she has tried to reach out to me.”

“I’m glad for that,” Jon said.

“So, what was your ‘Northern father’s’ mistake?” Dany said.

“That was even simpler,” Jon replied. “He was not aware of how far those who opposed him would go to destroy him, beyond honor, beyond all decency. He also didn’t know for sure who opposed him, and who was scheming to hurt him and his pack in secret.”

“But, you do know all of who is and who isn’t against you?”

“I believe I do, or, I will find out who is very shortly,” Jon said. “One advantage I have as compared to my Northern father is that nearly all of those who schemed against him are now safely dead or well-known to us. Of the latter, Lord Varys is the most intelligent of them, and he is now under our control.”

“It appears,” Dany sarcastically said.

“We will have to keep an eye on him, but I think my plan will expose him one way or another.”

It was then that Jon told her what his plan was. It only took him a minute to do so. She was silent for nearly that amount of time. “The Northern nobles… they would not support that.”

“They’ve been complaining about every little decision that I’ve made since they appointed me King in the North,” Jon said. “I’ve tried diplomacy, but even Sansa is getting weary of their insecurities. They need to be reminded of the seriousness of the situation.”

“As for me, though,” Dany said, “I know you said that I shouldn’t be trusting witches, but if I can’t have…”

“It matters not,” Jon said, now enveloping her into a full hug, one hand cradling the back of her head as she rested it on his shoulder. “We can live with or without children. There are many ways to select heirs. I want you to be with me, now and always, and I want to protect my family. And I am _done_ with asking permission to do either. I swear it, by the old gods, the new gods, and the souls of my father, mother, and all of my ancestors in this crypt.” As she lifted her head off of his shoulder, his grey eyes locked on to her violet ones, all hesitation and uncertainty gone. “What do you say, Dany?”

She stared into his eyes, trying to find the answer for him. “I don’t know if this is the wolf in you or the dragon that has spawned this idea,” she said. “Before I answer, can I take you on my own trip?”

“What do you have in mind?”

“Walk with me outside the gates. I want to see what the dragon in you can do.”

  
#

They walked out of Hunter’s Gate alone, into the clearing just before the start of the Wolfswood. “We taking a stroll into the forest?” Jon asked.

“I was thinking of different transport than by foot,” Dany said. “Wait for a moment.”

She stepped away from Jon, facing west. She closed her eyes and slowly raised her arms out to either side of herself, palms upward, until they were at shoulder height. Daenerys reached out with her mind, searching for her children’s presence. _Come to me_. She heard them respond to her even before the rumbles came down from the skies.

It was always amazing to her that her children could land on the ground as softly as they could, given as large as they had grown and might still become. _My children are becoming skilled flyers after all these years_, she thought.

“Where were they at, then? Off on the hunt?”

She stroked the nuzzle of Drogon, who had presented himself to his mother for attention. “Not exactly,” Daenerys said with a smile. “Care to see?”

As the midnight-black-scaled Drogon lowered himself down to allow Daenerys to mount him, Jon was startled to have Rhaegal, Drogon’s slightly smaller, bright green-scaled brother, tuck his snout with a _huff_ underneath one of Jon’s arms. “Hey, hello, boy,” Jon said, rubbing the top of his snout. “What’s all this about then?”

“What do you think, Jon Snow?” Daenerys said as she perched on her preferred position, just at the base of Drogon’s neck.

Jon saw Rhaegal, as Drogo had, lay both his body and neck down, to allow for… “You can’t be serious,” he said as the realization hit him.

“You are of the dragon blood, Jon,” she said, grinning. “He is named for your dragon father. I think, perhaps, a dragon has found its dragonrider.”

“I don’t know…” Jon demurred, even as what sounded like a quiet, humming growl, the dragon equivalent of a cat’s purr, emanated from Rhaegal.

“Otherwise, it’s going to be a very long walk for you,” she said.

“Ugh… all right.” He turned back toward Rhaegal. Noticing how he dipped his left wing down directly in front of him, Jon used that to boost himself up onto the dragon’s back. “What in the Seven Hells do I even hold onto?”

“The spines on his back, like so,” Daenerys said, demonstrating on Drogon.

Jon followed along, but he had never hugged the side of a horse as hard as he was doing to Rhaegal at that moment. “Don’t suppose there’s a plan for if I lose my grip on here, is there? The snow around here’s not that soft most places.”

“If you were to have an accident, up in the air… well, then, I would always remember you fondly.” She was grinning like a maniac.

“Your japes,” Jon said. “Isn’t there something in the customs of House Targaryen or Valyria about not joking about dragon issues?” Her only response to that assertion was wild cackling. “OK, then, how do we get our dragons airborne?”

“Your Grace,” she said with exaggerated formality when she was able to get control of her laughter, “you have but to say the word.” Daenerys looked up into the sky. “_Sovegon._”

At one moment Jon could pick out individual snowflakes on the ground. At the next moment, he had difficulty picking out individual trees.

#

**Arya**

“So, my father killed his? Oh, that’s perfect,” an apprehensive Gendry said as Arya finished her tale of what had happened.

“It’s not like that.” They were sitting on Gendry’s cot in his room off the forge, sharing some bread, cheese, and sausage by the light of the forge fire.

“You just told me Rhaegar was his father.”

“He _is_, but… ugh, it’s different,” Arya said, annoyed that she was frazzled enough to start biting her lip again, like when she was a child. “Yes, he sired him, but it was my father who taught him how to do things, taught him right or wrong. He… provided the seed, but that was it.”

“That wasn’t his fault though, either,” Gendry said. “From what you said, at least he wanted to be a father, but he didn’t get the chance. For all I know, my father just squirted his seed into my mother and rode off not even asking if I existed.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. He felt her hand gently rubbing his lower back. “Sometimes I keep forgetting everything you didn’t have that I at least had growing up…”

“Joanna.”

“What?”

“That was my mother’s name,” Gendry said. “I didn’t remember for the longest time, but then, just a while back, I remembered a time when I was crying in the tavern my mum worked at. I think I’d taken a tumble down the cellar stairs or something, and one of the other girls called out, ‘Joanna, get down here, the boy needs you.’ And I was swept up in her arms, and all I could see was her gold hair around me and my mum saying ‘there there, sweetling.’” He leaned over, his head hung over. “I still don’t remember much, whether she had a last name or a bastard name or whatever. I do remember that, though.”

Arya felt like she was about to sob, but covered her mouth so that what escaped sounded more like a hiccup. Despite that, Gendry did take notice, turning his now soft eyes to her. He reached and took her hand in his, interlacing their fingers. “I can’t even imagine that, not having memories of your mother. My mother and I didn’t get along always, but I still miss her terribly.”

“It’ll be all right. So, your brother isn’t going to attack me or anything?”

She shook her head. “He never believes a child is exactly what their parent is. They’re not responsible for what their parents did, just for the decisions you make. And he does like you, from what I can tell.”

“I guess that’s a good thing,” Gendry replied. “Now I’ll just have to worry about him getting cross with something I actually do.”

Exasperation built up in her as she had to guess as what Gendry was getting at. “Mad at what? You’re helping to arm his whole bloody army against the dead.”

Gendry’s only response was to look down at their entwined hands and back up at her raising an eyebrow. “You’re the one who did that, I don’t know why you’re acting strange about it,” she said.

“You’re the one who kissed me this morning,” he responded, smile slowly spreading across his face. “You’re the one sitting down with me on the cot I’m sleeping on, hand in hand, late at night with nobody else around…”

“And what of it?” she said, turning on the cot to face him, her frustration rising. “I’m not someone he has to protect all of the time, I’m not a child anymore…”

“Exactly. How old were you when we last saw each other?” It was like he was some smallfolk trying not to upset an irritable highborn, unsure of himself. Around everyone else, he was either abrupt or deferential, depending on the person’s status. But around her, he was vulnerable, always trying to look out for her.

“…four and ten, maybe? I think.”

“So now you’re… eight and ten?” She nodded slowly to him, the implications starting to seep in. “And I’m… two and twenty, based on what my old master said to me. Aren’t highborn girls getting married right around your age?”

“What are you trying to say, Gendry…?”

“What are you doing here, Arry?” he whispered, seemingly frustrated that she didn’t understand something obvious.

“What am I doing? Forget that, why are _you_ here, up in the North, trying to help with Jon?”

He started to answer, and he was almost in a panic as he finished. “It was a way to help you out, even though I didn’t know if you were still around. To help out those you cared for, even if you were dead… but I guess I always hoped you’d be around, that maybe you’d come home… and it happened. Gods, it happened. I didn’t think I’d get that lucky…”

Even though they kept the volume of their talk down as not to attract any attention, their words were becoming harsher. “And why did you care, anyway?” she shot back, her anger building. “I wanted you to come with me to Winterfell, to be your family for you, and you said _no_!”

“I fucked up, didn’t I!” Gendry said in desperation. “I thought I had made the right decision that night, but when the Red Witch took me away in that cart and I was watching you staring at me going away with those moony eyes of yours…”

She waved him off with her other hand. “I don’t make moony eyes, Gendry, don’t be stupid.”

“I _know_ what I saw,” Gendry insisted. “I know I was surprised, because I thought you wouldn’t care anymore after what I said…”

“I’d still care about what would happen to you, Gendry. Wasn’t that obvious to you?”

“Yes.” His voice sounded broken.

“Then why did you say no to me? Gods!”

“Because I wasn’t worthy to be your family!” He was hunched over the edge of the bed, “Who the hell was I, some bastard from Flea Bottom, and I’m going to be your family, you, a highborn girl from a big noble house?”

Arya reached over and joined her and Gendry’s hands with her other. “Gendry,” she said, her grey eyes wide and pleading. “You were never nothing, Gendry. You were kind, brave, someone who always looked out for others…”

“Why was I special to you?” Gendry said. “All my life, people either stayed away from me because they thought I was some raging, ill-tempered bull or treated me like I was lower than horseshit because of how I was born. People only tolerated me because I could swing a hammer and work hard. But you… I never scared you off, and you never looked down on me.”

“Let’s be fair,” Arya said, trying to cheer him up in her own way, “I called you a stupid bull more than once.”

He finally turned his head to face her again. “You never _treated_ me like a stupid bull. There’s a difference. And you never gave a shit that I was a bastard.”

She switched hands so that her left was now over the left hand she had been holding, allowing her to swing her arm over his shoulders. “I told you once, some of my favorite people were bastards. Like my brother… well, he was _raised_ as a bastard… Gods, this is going to get confusing.”

“That’s the only reason I got your attention, me being a bastard?” Gendry said, apparently trying to get a joke in.

“No,” Arya said, staring directly into his eyes. “Never just that. When I was growing up, I had _so_ many people telling me I had to change who I was, be their idea of a lady. Even some of my family were like that, like my mother. But there were people like my brothers, Jon especially, and my father, in his own way, that didn’t care. But outside them… do you realize how rare it is for there to be a man who doesn’t care if a lady doesn’t just do lady things? Outside of my family, you were the only one who was like that. You just accepted me for me.”

“Hot Pie did,” Gendry said, laughing.

“_He_ thought I was a boy most of the time he was traveling with us, let’s be honest.”

“All right.”

“All right.” There was a long stretch of quiet, when he looked away, as she took in the fact that it was the middle of the night and she was alone with a man where he slept. She hadn’t thought much of it since it was Gendry and they had spent so many nights like that on the road years ago. “You _are_ going to stay here, right? I mean, after we fight off these dead?”

“If we die I’m definitely going to stay here,” Gendry said, trying on some Arya-type sarcasm.

She wasn’t having it. “Don’t say that! We’re going to live. All of us are going to live. I’m being serious. Are you staying here?”

“I don’t know.”

“Gods’ sake, what do you mean you don’t know?”

“Where are you going to be? Because _that’s_ where I want to be when this is over. This place won’t be the same without you around. We’ll look after each other, like we always did.” He looked at her again, fixing her eyes with his. “S’not proper for me to be around someone like you, even though you say it is. But I can’t help it anymore. It’s not as good as when you’re around, I know that much.”

“We’ll be the only judge of what’s proper when it comes to us,” Arya said. “I mean that.”

“Ok. Ok…” He tried to smile, but he laid his head on her lap and encircled her waist with his arms. She could feel his shoulders shake as the young man nearly twice her size broke down. Arya heard a muffled “I’m sorry.”

“No, no, don’t worry, Gods’ sake,” she soothed, cradling his head and shoulders, supporting him. “You’ve had enough to cry about, that’s for sure.” She whispered for him to grab some of the furs and blankets they had on the cot to cover up with, and they set the rest of the food down off the bed. “Don’t worry. We’ll look after each other, like we always did.”

#

**Jon**

In the end, he was surprised at how well he did on his first flight.

It was by no means perfect. He often had the sense that he was more a passenger on Rhaegal than his rider, that he either flew where he wanted or his dragon mother desired. But by the end, he had used a series of nudges to Rhaegal’s spines and sides through his hands and legs to start directing him as to what to do, roughly translating what he did for horses to winged creatures.

He was thankful that serving on the Wall and climbing up it at least once had reassured him that he did not have an unreasonable fear of heights. He was also glad Rhaegal didn’t attempt to fly upside down at any point.

Still, he was relieved when Rhaegal glided to a soft stop in a clearing just behind Drogon and Dany. _It hasn’t been winter long enough for there to be big snowdrifts yet_.

“How was your first flight as a dragonrider, Jon?” said Dany, who had already dismounted from Drogon.

“Well, I likely aren’t as good on it as I am on a horse,” he said, chuckling. “Still, there is something to be said for being up there above everything. Reminds me of being on top of the Wall, but… more free. I don’t think I’ll totally give up on horses, though.”

“It’s good to have the skills to do both,” Dany nodded. “When I was first married to Khal Drogo, my wedding present from him was a silver horse, very beautiful and strong. She’s the one who taught me to ride, like a proper Khalessi.”

“I’m all right on a horse, but Arya was always the best rider of all of us.”

“Maybe she should go riding with some of the Dothraki sometime.”

“I’m scared she might take you up on the offer.” He looked around the clearing. “What is…?”

“My dragon children’s new winter home, as it is,” she said.

In the clearing, next to a thick part of the Wolfswood, was a lake with steam constantly rising off the surface. It sat immediately next to a wooded hill. There was a cave that took up a good portion of its south side, spacious enough to fit both dragons and room plenty to spare. “This is a hot spring, isn’t it?” Dany asked.

“More than a few of them around here,” Jon replied, “like the one underneath Winterfell. It helps out in the cold.”

“Have you been here before?”

He nodded. “My brothers and I used to hunt in this area often, sometimes Arya, too.” He pointed to the western woods. “The dragons will find some good hunting out there,” he said. “Deer, elk, moose, wild pigs, a few bears.”

“Good. Drogo and Rhaegal like to stay in the cave, next to the pool. See how the pool and the steam goes a bit inside the cave? It traps in the heat for them.”

“What about if the Army of the Dead come this way? We’re, what, five kilometers from Winterfell?”

“They’ll sense them long before they arrive,” Dany said. “When they come, Drogo and Rhaegal will take to the air and come find us.”

“You think so?” Jon said as he came to approach her.

“I know so. A mother knows.” She looked around the lake, a smile turning to a frown. “I didn’t realize this place might remind you of your family who you lost. I’m sorry.”

“No, that’s all right,” he said. “Just about every nook and cranny of Winterfell gives me a reminder of them, but I don’t mind. They’re good memories.”

She held out her hand. “Come with me, Jon.”

He accepted the hand, and they walked along the edge of the spring, where the heat from it had melted the snow, leaving a ring of mud and tundra surrounding it.

“Now I see how beautiful this land can be, Jon.” She took in the pine trees dusted with snow, the clear skies dappled with stars, and the foreboding stark majesty of it all. “Such a land seems to create unique men.”

“I used to think I knew for certain who I was,” Jon said. “I thought I was a wolf of this land, although one not like my brothers and sisters. Now, I hear that I’m some sort of secret dragon, a descendant of people all the way back to the Valyrian Freehold. The whole thing just twists my head around.”

“You’re both a dragon and a wolf,” she said. “If you want to be true to yourself, true to others, you’ll embrace both sides, everything that makes you who you are. It’s the only way you can truly be you.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.” They finally stopped at the small strip of land between the spring and the opening of the cave, staring at each other as both Drogo and Rhaegal peeked out at them from the interior.

“Jon,” Dany said as she stopped in front of the cave, facing both it, Jon, and her children inside, “I wanted to tell you. I’ve thought about your plan.”

“Yes?” He took both her hands in his.

“I agree to it. I agree to it all,” she said, her smile reaching all the way to both sides of her face. She was hopping with excitement.

“Gods. Oh, thank you, thank you,” he said, drawing her in to a kiss. “When do you want to head back?”

“Head back? Not for a while,” she said, nodding to the cave. Jon looked over her shoulder and saw that there was a sleeping pallet in the middle of the cave, packed with furs and blankets for the cold night.

“You planned this!” Jon said, chuckling.

“A little. Jon? Would you be interested in a swim?”

“A swim? What are you going on about?”

“Fire cannot hurt a dragon, have you not heard that saying?” She walked around Jon toward the water’s edge, onto the muddy bank. She turned back to Jon and saw him gazing between the spring and the cave. “Another memory, Jon?”

There was a calm to him as he turned his attention back toward “Not of my family. Someone else. Ygritte.”

“Your Freefolk lover?” Dany said. He’d told her about her, on the trip from Dragonstone, just as she talked about Drogo and Dario. They had not discussed them at length, but enough to know their relative importance in their past lives. 

“The spring was in a cavern, north Beyond the Wall,” he said. “The last thing she said to me before she died was ‘we should have never left the cave.’”

There was no jealousy from Dany; Ygritte was of the past as much as Drogo and the rest were for her. “Another good memory, then?”

“Yes.” He remembered how the memory had been one more sadness for him, a regret for what could have been. Ever since his first death, however, he had learned to treasure all of his good memories. 

“So,” Dany said, “Maybe it’s time to create some more good memories.” She reached down and started to pull off her boots and fling them toward the cave. 

“Your Grace,” he laughed, “I can guarantee you are going to get mud all over that lovely outfit. Yourself as well.”

“Good thing that I’ll be dipping into a hot spring soon,” she said, unbuttoning her silver-furred jacket. “Do you need an invitation, King in the North?”

Jon grinned as he flung off his cloak behind him on the tundra and started to unfasten jacket and tunic. “Not the type of proper behavior I’ve come to know from you, My Queen.”

She had made it down to her shift. “You should have seen me when I was sixteen and newly married,” she giggled. “I dressed like a Dothraki bloodrider and walked barefoot in the Great Grass Sea whenever we stopped to feed and water our horses.” She was already sinking into the mud toes-deep. 

An image flashed before his eyes of Dany in a brown leather riding vest, breeches, and boots as the now shirtless Jon unbuckled his pants and rugged at his own boots. “Never mind sixteen, I’d love to see you in that outfit now.”

“I think your first choice of outfit for me would be to wear nothing.”

“_That_ I would always prefer,” Jon smirked. 

“Hmm.” Dany was now down to her smallclothes. “I’m not sure the people of Westeros are ready for a queen who goes name day naked in public,” she decided, arching her eyebrows at the mental image. 

Jon was fully unclothed by the time he approached her and undid her breast band. “Very well, I shall be forced to keep this wonderful sight to myself.” He eased the last of her smallclothes over one ankle and then the other, and tossed them over his shoulder as Dany was busy unbraiding her hair. “It is a heavy burden, but one that I am willing to bear.”

She shook her head to let her tresses fall naturally. In the spirit of the Khaleesi she had been and still was, she let her hair grow out as Missandei had helped contain it with an elaborate system of braids. Unbound, her silver hair now was so long it covered her lower back and touched the tops of her buttocks. 

“You’re the first lover I ever had that made me laugh,” Dany said. “Laughter was so rare for me growing up. It’s a wonderful thing.”

“I’m happy to have made you laugh… ah!” Jon said, interrupted as Dany embraced him with what he thought was a regular hug, but it turned out she had grabbed his butt with both hands.

“This is fun,” she said, giving him an extra squeeze as she led him into the spring, “but I feel like a swim.”

She entered the water without flinching at the heat. There was just a moment’s hesitation for Jon as he got in up to his waist, but he acclimated to the steaming water quickly. “See, my love?” she said. “A dragon does not burn.” Suddenly she yelped as she felt Jon’s fingers drift across the sides of her rib cage.

“Apparently a dragon _is_ ticklish, however,” Jon grinned.

“We’ll see about the dragonwolf as well, then,” Dany hooted, snaking her hands underneath his armpits and coaxing a few hoots from the normally gloomy Northerner. 

Eventually, as the tickle fight wore on, they ventured out into water deep enough to reach Jon’s chest. To keep her head above water, Dany found herself wrapping her arms around the back of Jon’s neck and her legs around Jon’s waist. The laughter that echoed out over the spring and into the cave got the dragon’s attention. With a few flaps, they had left the cave and now were soaring in circles around the spring, moon and starlight reflecting off their scales.

As they called a truce, Dany gazed up at her children, as her wet hair gleamed with reflected moonlight. “We’ll have to come back here again, Jon.”

“Yes,” he said, eyes wide. “This place is a lot more useful than just a hunting ground.”

“So, do you… _ohhh_.” To Dany’s total surprise, she felt Jon enter her while she kept her legs around him. In disbelief, she asked, “Like this?”

“You said I should try new experiences, right?” He grinned as he reached down and cupped her perfectly shaped bottom now with his hands, for both the feel of it and to ensure she would stay in place. 

“I certainly did.” Dany’s kiss probed Jon’s mouth, roaming with her tongue and dueling with his as the heat inside them started to match their environment.

As he and Dany continued to make love, he stole looks at what was above, the dragons soaring in circles, the occasional rumbling cry ringing through the air as the moon and stars shone down on them all. _They seem to be looking down on their mother and I having sex_, Jon thought. _There’s something undeniably… _romantic_ about dragons flying through a moonlit night sky, there definitely is_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK:
> 
> 1\. A quick look at Jonerys and Gendrya here. Maybe it's just me, but I'm not a fan of slowburn and people being damn clueless about what they want in life. If the Dead are approaching and you have to deal with a crazy queen afterwards, the drama and the silliness fade away and you reach for what's important. I'm not really someone who is addicted to bad drama in my real life, anyway.
> 
> 2\. I'm getting started on Chapter 12 right away, which will cover how Jon breaks all of this to the general public and his unsure Northern lords. Hint, hint; he calls on his dragon blood and the fierceness of his Northern ancestors to let people know what's what. Not dark Jon, but he will take care of business.
> 
> 3\. I inserted a shoutout to Douglas Adams in the last scene of this chapter; I believe this was inspired by a scene from his book Mostly Harmless. The Hitchhiker's Guide to The Galaxy was what made me want to be a writer, so I had to pay tribute to him at some point in this project. RIP, Douglas - at least you knew where your towel was when you died.
> 
> 4\. This whole process is giving me more inspiration for trying to put together my own original fantasy project (obviously not something posted here, but I might take it on with a publisher or agent). I'm beginning to realize what I like and don't like in fantasy based on what I'm doing here with GOT.
> 
> [AUTHOR'S NOTE: Added some quick revisions to this 11.11.2019.]
> 
> Until next time, everyone.


	12. The Union of Dragon and Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon Snow reveals his true identity. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it was a lot of sweating 😅 over the small stuff, but Chapter 12 is done. I hope I did the Jon reveal justice. Feel free to make suggestions, etc.  


12.

**Daenerys**

She woke up on the cot but couldn’t see anything at first due to the tangle of her own hair covering her face. It took some finger combing before he could see a bemused Jon smiling down at her, propped up on his elbow by her side. 

“Good morning, Dany,” he said. “I like what Missandei does with your hair, but this… _ wild _ look has its own charms.”

“Ha, ha,” she said, propping herself up in a seated position. 

“Ugh,” he said, shaking his head, “I keep forgetting you don’t like the name Dany.”

“I didn’t like it when Viserys called me that, but you using it has grown on me. Sort of how you are Jon to me.” She was lost in thought for a moment. “Why did your father name you Jon?”

“It was in honor of Lord Jon Arryn, ruler of the Vale and Hand to Robert Baratheon. When he and Robert were young boys, they were sent by their fathers to Lord Jon’s court as his wards. Now that I think of it, it made sense for him to choose that name, since it shared its first letter with the name my mother gave me.”

Realization came to Daenerys. “He was the one who defied my father’s order to turn them over to him?”

Jon nodded. “Lord Jon was as much of a father to him as his true father was, and Jon saw Ned and Robert as his own sons. He would protect them with his own life.”

“He sounds like an honorable man.”

“Aye, he was.”

She turned her eyes to Drogon and Rhaegal, who were curled up in the back part of the cave asleep. “Well, shall we get dressed and wake the children for the trip back to the castle?”

“‘The children’ kept staring at us last night,” Jon grunted. 

“They and your direwolf have something in common, it seems. Shall we?”

Jon swung his legs over the side of the cot. “Time to get on with it.”

#

**Arya**

She woke on the cot she’d shared with the smith. The blankets and furs were over them, but the smith was wrapped around her, cradled in his arms and him pressed against her back. It was similar to other times they had fallen asleep together, in Harrenhal and on the road in the Riverlands, although they were children then. 

Gendry had grumbled a little about the cold, but he gave off plenty of warmth that evening, as if he’d absorbed the heat from the fires of all the forges he’d worked in over the years. He was asleep still, face in her hair as his breath warmed the back of her neck. 

Then there was… _ him, _ pressed up against her rear. She was still a maiden, but in the years since her father’s death and her time in Braavos, she had seen men and women alike naked. From what she could tell, he seemed sizable compared to some. 

She tried to think if something like this happened before, when they were younger. It must have, some awkwardness, likely. But last night, when it had happened in his sleep, she had pressed herself into him and he had hugged her tighter. It had all been subconscious, but she wondered how long it would be before such actions become conscious ones. 

She had crawled onto the bed with him fully clothed, so it was just a matter of sliding out underneath his arms and rolling over the side of the cot. She made sure to cover him up before whispering in his ear, “Gendry? Gendry?”

“Ngh?” he grunted as he picked his face up off the cot. 

“I have to get going,” she said. “I’ll be back later tonight, but I’ll bring some more food and some extra blankets if I can manage it.”

“You stay the night again, I’ll keep warm enough,” he said with the silliest of grins.

She gave off an exasperated grunt. “Likely that won’t happen, stupid. Well, not guaranteed, anyway.” She brought her hand to his cheek. “I’ll be back tonight.” Arya leaned down and gave him a brief kiss on the mouth. She had the whole nose thing down this time. 

“See you, Arry,” he whispered as she walked out of the smithy. 

It was early enough that there were only a couple of people up and around in the courtyard as Arya made her way toward the Great Hall. She was thinking that she was going to make it without being noticed…

...until she saw her sister looking down on her from the bridge between the armory and the Great Keep, reminding Arya of her parents staring down at her from that height. 

_ Fuck me_, she thought as she walked up to the stairs. 

She was surprised to see Sansa with a mug of what appeared to be… “Tea?” Sansa asked. 

Arya nodded. Sansa produced a kettle and second mug and poured her a cup. “Thanks,” Arya said as she accepted it. 

The sisters leaned against the railing, mugs in hand, as they looked out over the courtyard. “So, you spent all night in the smithy, then,” Sansa said. 

_ I’m not going to act like I did anything to be ashamed of_, she thought. “I did.”

“Waiting on the smith to make you a dragonglass weapon?” She arched her eyebrow as she said it. 

“As it turns out,” Arya responded, her face betraying nothing, “he is.”

“But that’s not why you spent the night.”

“No, it’s not. I was keeping the smith company.”

“The smith Jon brought here, the one at that meeting? ...Gendry, isn’t it?”

“From King’s Landing. Probably the best smith there is in the Seven Kingdoms,” Arya boasted. 

“Look, I know… you always played with servants’ or smallfolk’s children when we grew up, but spending the night with some strange smith is a bit much.”

“Gods’ sake.” Arya turned to glare in exasperation at her sister. “He’s _ not _ a stranger. I’ve known him since Father died.”

_ That _ caused Sansa to freeze just before she took another sip. “What?”

“It’s a long story,” Arya said, waving her off as she took a sip from her own mug. “Jon can fill you in on it. He knows it already.”

“He knows about this?” Sansa laughed, pointing at the smithy. 

“Shut up.” She scowled at Sansa trying to make her feel like she was one and ten again, with Jon and her sister standing in for their parents. “We used to look after each other, out there. He’s the best friend I’ve got now.” _ A best friend you kiss on the mouth randomly. Maybe not so randomly_. Now she scowled at herself instead while taking a sip of tea.

“Any other surprises I should be aware of while we’re talking?”

Arya waited until Sansa was taking another sip of tea. “Gendry is King Robert’s bastard.” She cackled at Sansa sending a very unladylike mist of tea down to the courtyard. 

Now it was Sansa’s turn to glare at her in exasperation as she wiped her mouth with her sleeve. “I thought Cersei and Joffrey killed all of them off.”

“Not all of them.” She turned and took Sansa’s hand in hers. “Look, I… I just want to make sure you and Jon leave him alone. He’s… important to me.”

Sighing, Sansa squeezed her sister’s hand. “All right, don’t worry. We need the dragonglass weapons too much anyway.” A new concern came to her mind with a frown. “Arya, do you need anything…”

“Nothing happened last night, thank you very much,” Arya shot back as she dropped her sister’s hand. Her exasperation had returned. “Not that it would be any of your business, or any of your business whether I’m still a maid or not. I _ am, _ but it’s still not your business.”

Sansa set down her mug and took Arya gently by the shoulders. “I just don’t want people to think poorly of you, or make someone less likely to offer their hand in marriage to you.”

“Do you think I give a wet shit anymore about what people think of me?” she said. “Do you think I care about turning off some stuck-up highborn lord who thinks his farts are perfume from asking me to be his wife? Is that anything you have ever sensed me wanting to do?” _ Or maybe you’re now worried about me marrying some bastard smith? _

“I have a question for you,” Arya continued. “Father always told us the best man or woman in a position was one who had experience in doing what they did. He always insisted we practice what we were learning, right? Swordsmanship, archery, riding horses, reading, even doing bloody needlework. Why is it when these highborn that supposedly know the best seek out wives, they always look for the _ least _ possible experienced women with what’s one of the most important things about _ being _ a wife?”

“Arya…” she began, then was struck silent. _ That’s something I don’t see every day, _ Arya thought. “Seven Hells. I hate to admit it, but you have a point. If I had sex with more people than just one sadist, there might be a chance of me enjoying sex.” She shuddered as she closed her eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” Arya said, pulling her sister into a tight hug. 

“I keep telling you that’s not your fault,” Sansa said as she patted Arya on the head. “Arya… are you thinking of… being with him?”

“You accept me being an assassin with barely a blink, but the thought of me having interest in a man… Seven Hells, I don’t know,” she whispered. “I’m still trying to sort out things. I wouldn’t have any idea what to do, anyway.”

“Maybe it would be best if you asked Daenerys for advice regarding that,” Sansa said with a laugh.

Arya was surprised. “The queen?”

“I have the feeling that she might wind up as our goodsister before too long,” Sansa said. She pulled out a rolled-up message from the pocket of her dress. “Jon gave this to me before the two of them took off on their dragon ride. He’s going to have a meeting with all the nobles this afternoon. Before that, though, he and she want to meet with just us and Bran.”

Arya’s eyes locked with Sansa’s. “It’s going to come out.”

“I think so,” Sansa replied. “Can you make sure to fetch Bran from his room?” Arya nodded. 

#

**Gendry**

“Long night?” he heard from the entry to the smithy. 

Gendry sat up in his cot, blankets wrapped around his shoulders and body. “Thought you were off to White Harbor and Dragonstone?”

“Their Graces wanted me to stick around for a meeting this afternoon that sounded a bit secretive,” Davos said. He was carrying two steaming bowls of soup, complete with spoons, in each hand. “Thought you could use something for breakfast before getting back to work.”

“Appreciate it,” Gendry said, taking the proffered bowl. 

Davos took a seat on a nearby stool as they dug into the potato, onion, and vegetable concoction. “Saw you had company? Lady Arya, wasn’t it, the king’s sister?”

Gendry groaned at that. “Nothing happened. Anyway, she can take care of herself just fine.”

Davos nodded at that. “I’ve not seen her on the training ground myself, mind, but I’ve heard the stories. Making nice with a highborn girl seems a bit bold for you, knowing you like I do.”

“S’not like that,” Gendry said between sips. “I knew her before I knew you, since her father was killed.”

“So, what’s she to you?” Davos saw Gendry’s face freeze, eyes wide and tongue frozen in his mouth. “Oh, my, lad,” he concluded, “you’ve got the look bad.”

“What look you’re talking about?”

“The same look I saw in the mirror years back when I first met my wife,” Davos chuckled. “What do you want to happen? Honestly?”

Gendry finally found his voice. “I want to be where she is. Winterfell, King’s Landing, Gods, even Braavos, makes no difference to me.”

“You tell her that?”

“In those words last night.”

Davos nodded, his mind racing as he considered what to say next. “I’m off to sea soon and you need advice.” It was a statement, not a question. Gendry nodded in agreement.

“What you told her last night was a good start,” Davos continued. “Keep telling her what you want, and be very specific about it. Make sure she feels the same way, because otherwise it’s no use. Make sure you have consideration of her needs and wants, always. In most of the arguments you may have, just remember in the end that she’s right because she usually is.”

Gendry grinned at that. “I already have plenty of experience with the last one. Anything else, Ser Davos?”

Davos features softened, and he sighed before he continued. “Whatever you want to do, best be quick about it. The dead will be here soon enough and nobody knows what will happen next or who’s going to be around after. Compared to that, I’m getting off easy.”

“You still have to hold off the Iron Fleet,” Gendry countered. “That’s not going to be an easy task.”

“Ah,” Davos said, “Stannis and I cracked that fleet during the Greyjoy Rebellion. I’m not going to have a problem holding off Balon’s brother.”

“Still, calm seas and safe travels, Ser Davos.”

Davos got up from his stool to pat Gendry on the back. “Same to you, lad.”

#

**Jon**

Daenerys and he entered his father’s old solar, the one Sansa had made her own. She was there, along with Arya and Bran in his wheelchair. Jon imagined that he must have been a sight, with mud spattering both his clothes and the bottom of Dany’s dress, and her normally impeccable silver hair now hanging haphazardly down her back. “Thanks for coming,” he said. 

Arya couldn’t resist. “Long night, Your Graces?”

“You’re one to talk,” Sansa said under her breath. 

“Will you shut up?” Arya hissed at her. 

“What's going on?” Jon asked in all innocence. 

“Nothing, Jon,” Sansa replied as she and Arya decided they needed to behave. “It’s good to see you.”

“Thanks. Do the lords know about the meeting?”

Sansa nodded. “Yes, this afternoon, although they don’t know what it’s about. I’m assuming you and the queen are about to tell us what that is.”

Daenerys nodded. “We are going to make an announcement.”

#

Jon laid out exactly how the meeting was going to go. It took him about five minutes to do and at the end, the solar was silent. 

After giving them a few moments to absorb things, Jon said, “It might seem like I’m making this decision on my own, or Daenerys and I are making it ourselves. That’s not how I see it. We need your support to make this work. And that’s what I’m asking of you now.”

To Jon’s surprise, it was Bran who spoke up first. “I think this might be the only workable way forward for both all of us and Westeros. Is this what both of you want?”

“It is,” Daenerys said. 

Bran gestured for Arya to roll him up to the couple. “Trying to build up my strength to move this around more,” he said to himself. “Anyway, I can tell you are sincere in your intent. I will support you.”

“Thank you, Bran,” Jon said. He pulled Bran into a hug, and then, to Daenerys’ surprise, Bran reached over and hugged her as well. 

Arya came from behind Bran’ wheelchair to face Jon. “You sure my brother is still in there and hasn’t forgotten who he or his family is?”

Jon reached over and tousled Arya’s hair. “If I ever do, I have my brother and sisters to remind me.”

“And to back you up.” Arya pulled him into a fierce hug. “Always.”

“Always,” Jon replied. 

Arya then enveloped Daenerys in a hug only a little less vigorous than Jon’s. “Welcome,” she said to her. 

“Thank you,” she managed to squeak out as Arya squeezed. 

Sansa was in surprised disbelief as she approached Jon as she considered what the announcement meant for her. “I’m not even sure what to say.”

“Say ‘yes?’” Jon replied.

It was only then that she broke out into a smile. “Yes.” The two of them hugged, and then Sansa leaned down and did the same for the queen. “Well, Your Grace, we’ll be a lot closer much faster than we anticipated.”

“Do _ all _ of your family events involve this much hugging?” Daenerys laughed. 

“Well, I think our family used to be a bit more formal, but not so much now,” Sansa said with a smile. “So, yes when it’s just us. Speaking of other people, what do we need to get ready for this afternoon?”

Daenerys pointed helplessly to her tangled tresses. “I think Jon and I will need to get… freshened up. We’ll have to meet with some people before the meeting. Invite Missandei, Lord Tyrion, Ser Jorah, and… Lord Samwell, I think. I guess Lord Varys will also be included.”

“Ser Davos is still here, we should have him there. Also, we might need to bring in Grey Worm,” Jon said. 

“Okay. Now it begins,” Daenerys said.

#

He waited in the hallway leading to the Great Hall, hearing the murmurings of the assembled Northern nobles trying to determine what the need of a third large meeting in as many days. Jon reviewed what he planned to say, what his demeanor should be. _ All of this will rest on Dany and I, _ he thought. _ We will have to convince these people to do what is needed, despite whatever apprehensions they might have. If we are all to survive, I cannot fail. _

He cast his gaze down and to his left, where he found Dany looking off into the distance, her right hand clasped in his left. She was surely praying to her ancestors, whichever gods she might pray to – her family followed the Faith of the Seven technically, but since House Targaryen had often defied that faith by marrying within their family, he was unsure about how strictly she followed it. It was one thing that they had never talked about, but he imagined that they would have to soon.

“Are you ready to do this thing?” Jon said as he put on a brave face. “We’re about to head into the wolves’ den out there.”

“It’s _ our _ den, the den of wolves and dragons, is it not?” Daenerys chuckled. She seemed like this was just another task for her, and it probably was. _ She had to before, _ he thought, _ even when she was powerless, or held against her will. Compared to that, this is easy. _

“Keep it in mind,” she continued. “We do not have to confront them, _ they _ have to reckon with us. Together, we can do what has to be done.” Dany punctuated the last phrase with a small squeeze of his hand. It was almost like she was pumping her extra confidence into him through his arm.

_ Rulers have to be mad not to rely on their wives, _ he thought. _ Lady Catelyn was never a strong leader until Father died because she did not have any other choice. But he always listened to her advice. I wouldn’t be able to do this without her, and she needs me, as well. _

With a final mutual nod between her and him, they stepped out, hand in hand, before the assembled lords.

As he walked to a spot in front of the high table, he searched the room, trying to get a handle on what the mood was. At the moment, most of the lords looked annoyed or indifferent, a natural feeling since this was the third time in as many days they’d had to gather here.

Grey Worm stood in the back of the hall, flanked by a small detachment of Unsullied next to a group of Stark household guards arranged in case things got out of hand. He seemed quietly confident that he would keep the peace; Missandei had apparently quieted any concerns he might have had about Jon usurping Dany.

Missandei, Tyrion, Ser Jorah, Samwell, Ser Davos, and Lord Varys lined the wall to his right. The first four were in full support of the plan, feeling that it would be the best way to protect Daenerys and her claim to the throne, although Sam was thinking more of what it would do for his friend. Ser Davos had been bemused at the story, but not necessarily shocked – if a Red Priestess could give birth to a shadow baby that murdered someone and dragons now flew in the air, this story was just as credible. He was glad he could be here to show his support to Jon, who he’d admired for several years, and Daenerys, who was rapidly gaining his admiration as well.

Of all of them, Varys was the most unknowable about how he felt regarding the news. He was doing everything he could to keep his features as neutral and inexpressive as possible, a trait he’d perfected serving five different rulers. The news that Jon Snow had a different father and mother had thrown him for a loop for two reasons – there was now a possible alternative to Daenerys on the throne, but Jon’s plan seemed to… either strengthen that alternative or weaken it, depending on one’s perspective. He was also inwardly seething, likely because he was the last to find out the news. _Are my birds becoming complacent… _? Varys seemed to wonder.

Sansa was seated in the center chair usually reserved for Jon as she was caught somewhere between fear of the unknown and the thrill of it, gripping the arms of her chair with a firm grasp. To Sansa’s right, Arya looked like she was about to begin a grand adventure, and flashed a winning smile at both Jon and Dany. To Sansa’s left, Bran kept the same placid smile that he had when no one could tell what he was thinking or feeling, but nodded to Jon and Dany in turn.

Dany let go of Jon’s hand but stood right by his side. They had agreed that he would take the lead in saying what needed to be said. These were his people he needed to convince, and it was his story.

“Nobles, thank you for coming here once again,” he began. “You have been very patient with these meetings for the past few days, so I wanted to assure you that it’ll be the last one for some time.” He paused to let them chuckle in appreciation. “However, information has come to my attention, in just this last day, that is of such importance, I believed I had a profound obligation to share it with you. It is one that matters not to the Night King and his army, but it will matter once both he and, later, Cersei Lannister is defeated.”

He had their attention, but now Jon planned to gain their curiosity. “My father always said that I always needed to be honest in my dealings with people. He was someone who said that if a man does not have his word, what he says has no meaning. I’ve followed that advice to a fault, sometimes to the worry of my own advisers, and of Queen Daenerys. I will have to share with you the truth now, even though, ironically, I did not become aware of this truth until just now because of what I think is one of the few times my father did tell a falsehood.”

“My father would only tell me the smallest details about my birth,” he continued. He looked at the others in the crowd. Many had stopped their side conversations, and a few started leaning toward Jon to get a better listen. “However, I did know that it happened in the last days of Robert’s Rebellion.

“The story I always heard from my father, Lord Stark,” he continued as he now paced in the middle of the room, next to Dany, “was that he had gone to Dorne to recover his sister Lyanna, who had been sent there by Rhaegar Targaryen. Some said he kidnapped her, though my father never talked about it. Not a surprise, a brother not wanting to discuss his sister’s kidnap and possible rape. When he did say, was that he and his companions defeated those guarding her at the Tower of Joy, then found her in the tower near death. She died not long after my father saw her there. Since I was born around that time, my father took his sister’s body to be buried in the crypts of Winterfell, and me to be raised in the North by him.

“Yesterday morning, I learned that this was not the entire truth,” Jon said. “Information and evidence was given to me that tells this tale: Lyanna was not the captive of Rhaegar in the Tower of Joy, she was his lawful wife and kept there for her safety. Lyanna did not die from some wound, but from childbirth, the birth of Rhaegar Targaryen’s child. With her dying breath, Lyanna named the child Jaehaerys Targaryen.” The rumble of voices in the crowd rose to fill it until Jon’s next words tipped it over the edge. “I am that child.”

The roar of shock and surprise from the Northerners washed over Jon and those with him near the front. Jon stood with hands behind his back, waiting for the disorder to die down and the questions to come. Dany took a similar stance as he, with only a sideway glance at Jon for the slightest of reassurance. She had to suppress a snort of laughter as Jon winked at her, his face otherwise neutral. _ Japing in the face of rebellion, _ he thought.

Lord Glover finally rose after the excitement died down, and it was clear that he was one of those trying to take it seriously, much less believe it. “Lord… Jaehaerys, Jon, whatever… with all due respect, Your Grace, is there any proof of this claim?”

“There is, and we will show it to you,” Jon replied.

It was then that Jon brought Samwell, Bran, and Lord Howland before the group, and they spent the next several minutes revealing how they had learned of Jon’s identity. There were more than a few raised eyebrows at Bran’s talk of visions, but in a world where the dead were coming to life and dragons now flew around in the skies, there was less resistance to that idea. Also, the rumors of the accuracy of Bran’s visions had already made their way around Winterfell ever since he’d returned to the castle. If there was any apprehension toward Bran, it was more along the lines of worries that any lies or half-truths they might be tempted to utter around him would be discovered, so anyone outside his family that talked around Bran kept their conversations brief.

By the end of their presentation, any side chatter or movement in the hall had simply ceased. Everyone’s eyes were now fixed on the queen from across the waters and the man they’d elected as the King in the North. _ They might see _ me _ as much of a stranger as her, _ Jon thought.

Jon spread his arms wide, waving his hands to get the lords’ attention focused on him. “My lords, I can understand your uncertainty and confusion. I certainly share it. Imagine me, learning that what I thought was true for the first three and twenty years of my life turned out… not to be the whole truth. I am willing to answer any questions you might have.”

Lord Wylis Manderly, Lord Wyman’s son and the commander of the Manderly forces now at Winterfell, rose to speak. “My Lord, what effect does this have on your claim to the throne of the North?”

“I would think none,” said a chestnut-brown haired lord with wide, amber eyes, a heart-shaped face that made him look incredibly young, with a brown bull-moose sigil on his light brown tunic. Jon recognized him as Larence Snow, the bastard son of Lord Halys Hornwood. With both Lord Halys and his trueborn son dead, Larence, just nine and ten but appearing much younger, had recently assumed leadership of House Hornwood. “The lords of the North chose him to be King of the North even though we believed him to be a bastard, even though he was not trueborn. Does it make any difference that he is not Ned Stark’s son?”

“I know Jon Snow to be a man of his word, so I accept his story,” Lady Lyanna Mormont said as she stood. “Thus, Jon Snow is not a bastard son of Lord Eddard Stark, but the trueborn son of Lady Lyanna Stark. Does that not give him at least an equally strong claim to be king?” She now turned to address Jon directly. “I think I remember saying something about how Ned Stark’s blood flowed through your veins when I pledged myself to your crown.”

“Lord Stark told me something similar the last time I met with him,” Jon replied. “He was telling the truth, after a fashion.”

The normally somber Lady of Bear Island broke out into a stunned giggle that made her appear to be all her four and ten years. “After a fashion. Regardless, be assured that my vow, and the vow of my house, at least, remains true.”

“I also want to reassure all of the lords of the North that we will continue to maintain control of our own internal affairs separate from both the present and future rulers in King’s Landing,” Jon said, before anyone else could break in. “I will continue to serve as your king. However, as a show of my intent that we will maintain that degree of independence, I am naming an heir to that throne. Lady Sansa, please rise.”

Sansa stood up at the head of the table, her heart spinning with equal parts anticipation, warmth, and a jittering unease. “Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell, I name you to be Heir to the Kingdom of the North. You and your heirs will succeed me to my crown. I can think of no better choice for this than the oldest daughter of Lord Eddard Stark. Until then, I also name you as Wardeness of the North.”

“To Lady Sansa, may she watch over the North well.” Daenerys’ voice rang through the great hall as she saluted Sansa with outstretched arms.

Scattered cries of “Lady Sansa” eventually coalesced into a brief chant, led by Arya, and a final cheer for her. Sansa bowed to both her brother and to the queen. “This is a great honor, and one I will never take lightly. Thank you, Brother,” she said to another round of light cheers.

“Your Grace, may I ask something?” Lord Royce, the bluff, burly head of the Knights of the Vale, now rose to speak, having waited for the native Northerners to have first say. “Because of your true identity, do you not have a better claim to the throne than Daenerys Stormborn, as son of Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen? Do you plan to press this claim?”

There was now another rumble of conversation, some of them out of their seats, as they digested this new fact. “Is that true?” someone called out from the babble of noises.

“I realize that there might be some that could see advantage in having me dispute Queen Daenerys’ claim to the throne,” Jon said. For the briefest of moments, he glanced at Lord Varys, who showed no reaction to the words or his attention. “However, this fact, as well as another fact, has prompted the queen and myself to a solution that not only is logical, but will be of the best benefit to Westeros and its people.”

Jon sent a single side-glance to Daenerys as soon as he finished speaking. On cue, she reached out with a confident grin and held her hand out toward him. In three strides, he was at her side, hands clasped at waist level. He leaned toward her, and they kissed, short enough to be acceptable for noble company but long enough to demonstrate it was much more than a friendly kiss.

At that, it seemed like most of the room gasped at the sight. “All of you were surprised?” Jon called out to the tension-filled hall, and _ that _ caused a small wave of laughter to roll through the hall. He could hear Arya’s cackle above most of them. “Like my father, I am usually not the best of liars.”

“Ever since your king came to Dragonstone, I have been impressed with his many personal qualities,” Daenerys now said. “His sense of honor, his kindness towards others, especially his family and the people he rules, are just a few of those. Many traits we have in common, or are complementary to each other. As a result, the more that we have known each other over the past few months, in preparation for both the Army of the Dead and to retake the throne, the more that our admiration… became more than that.” She maintained a regal posture in front of the lords, but Jon could detect the slightest of blushes on her cheeks just below her violet eyes.

“We… acted on this affection before I learned of my full identity,” Jon continued. “However, after discussing the matter with the queen, we have decided that it does not affect the affection we have for each other. By blood, we are aunt and nephew, but we were never raised as such due to our circumstances. Compared to the instances of familial marriage in both House Targaryen and Stark, we believe this issue… is a minor matter.”

“Are you married now?” Lord Larence asked.

“We will be, by this evening, in the godswood of this castle,” Jon said. “After the Army of the Dead is vanquished, we will be pressing a _ combined _ claim to the throne of Westeros. We will serve as co-rulers in King’s Landing.”

“We will forgo a wedding celebration afterward,” Daenerys said. “We wish to save resources for the fight ahead, and we will have plenty of time to officially celebrate our marriage when we eventually accept the crown in King’s Landing.”

Another rumble of crosstalk through the crowd was cut short by Lord Varys. “Your Grace,” he said to Daenerys, in as gentle and neutral tone as possible, “are you satisfied with sharing power with the King in the North? You did not feel undue… pressure from anyone to make this concession?”

“I did not feel such pressure, nor do I consider it to be a concession, My Lord,” Daenerys responded in an equally polite but slightly cool tone. “In considering our union, first personal and then political, we realized that while we are individually fine leaders, we bring valuable and complementary skills to rule.”

“I never dreamed of being a king, nor particularly wanted to be one,” Jon said. “If anything, I was more prepared to be a ranger of the Night’s Watch than I was anything else. On the other hand, Daenerys Stormborn had prepared for this role for years. She has great political experience in dealing with many varieties of people and cultures. And she has dragons,” he concluded with a laugh.

“I have ridden those dragons into battle, but I could not consider myself a true warrior or a keen military mind as of yet,” Daenerys said. “However, Jon is both of those. He has a deep knowledge of Westeros and the North that, even though I was born on Dragonstone, I do not yet possess. Together, we are the best hope for this land.”

_ Gods, this might work, _Jon thought. They were still under more than a few skeptical glares and disgusted faces, but there were still more people slowly nodding their heads in agreement.

“A question, Your Graces,” Lord Glover said, arms folded in front of him and skepticism coloring his words. “I assume that you mean for all of us to recognize your joint claim to the Iron Throne. What if we choose not to? What if we choose not to recognize your leadership?”

Slowly nodding, Jon let go of Daenerys’ hand and ambled over toward where Lord Glover stood. He was tired of the second-guessing, the arguments about trifles. Many men might have screamed or harangued these reluctant lords, but Jon pictured what Father would do in this situation. After taking some time for some strong ale at finding himself facing the undead, Jon had no doubt that his approach would be practical, ruthless in addressing the task at hand, and lacking in excess emotion. Jon hoped he could do as Father would have done, as what needed to be done.

“That would be entirely up to you, My Lord,” Jon said in a neutral tone. “You could do such a thing, and we would let you leave in peace.”

Glover nodded in return. “I understand. So…”

“_Leave _ being the key word,” Jon’s words were cold steel as he stepped in front of Glover. “You would have to leave the protection of this castle, and of both my army and that of Queen Daenerys. You would be responsible for your own defense against the dead, and the protection of those who cannot fight. Those non-combatants who do not recognize our claim will not be allowed shelter in Dragonstone or White Harbor.

“There was a saying that my brothers of the Night’s Watch had about fighting the dead,” Jon said, now looking past Glover and addressing the entire room. “’The last one of us alive, burn the rest.’ If you do _ not _ decide to recognize us, I would simply ask that if _ you _are the last of your group to face the undead, have the courtesy to burn their bodies so we are not forced to kill your friends and family again, once they are recruited into the Night King’s army.

“Your choice is simple,” Jon concluded. “Stand with us, first against the Night King, and then against Cersei Lannister as we make our claim to the crown. Or, decide to go on your own and face the dead unaided. It is time to choose.”

There was an immediate scraping of chairs and the rolling of wheels behind him. Jon knew what was coming, so he waited until his siblings stood in front of him – or in Bran’s case, sat. “The King in the North and the King and Queen of Westeros,” Sansa said. “Long may they reign.” With that, she dropped to her knee in front of them.

“The King in the North and the King and Queen of Westeros,” Bran said as he bowed in his wheelchair, elbows on the armrests and his hands in his lap. “Long may they reign.”

Arya drew Needle and saluted the couple, blade upright and hilt held to her heart. “The King in the North and the King and Queen of Westeros. Long may they reign.” She dropped to her knee and laid her sword down at the feet of Jon and Daenerys. Jon looked over to the right and saw Tyrion and the rest of the queen’s entourage, Davos, and Samwell kneel and pledge themselves to the couple.

“Your Grace, I have a question,” shouted out a man from the back, throwing the hood from his cloak back to reveal someone who resembled Ned Stark to Jon’s eyes.

Jon was unsure of the man’s identity. “Yes, excuse me, you are…?”

“Ser Joren Snow, son of Old Flint of the Mountains,” replied the man from the back. “If we are to pledge ourselves to you, what name do we call you by?”

Jon had a good laugh at that question. “Please, I hope you are not offended, Ser Snow, because it is a legitimate question,” he said, raising his hand in acknowledgement. “Just as I have a father who sired me and a father who raised me, so I have two given names - Jon Snow and Jaehaerys Targaryen. Perhaps I will use them one at a time, or in different combinations. Seven Hells, my bride to be has, what, six, seven, eight names that she is known by?” He pointed to Daenerys, who was sharing a conspiratorial laugh with Missandei, the popularizer of several of those names. “I will likely be Jon Snow in the North, at least. I imagine history will give me whatever names it deems fit, although it matters not.”

“Very well.” Ser Joren said, drawing his blade and kneeling before the king and queen. “For the White Wolf and the Dragon Queen!”

Slowly but surely, a chant rose among the Northerners as, one after the other, they bent the knee before Jon and Dany. Slowly but surely, the chant rose until it eventually escaped outside the hall:

“WHITE WOLF!”

“DRAGON QUEEN!”

“WHITE WOLF!”

“DRAGON QUEEN!”

“WHITE WOLF!”

“DRAGON QUEEN!”

“WHITE WOLF!”

“DRAGON QUEEN!”

One by one, with Ser Joren the first of them, all of the Northerners knelt.

#

Daenerys had to pause for a minute before she went through with everything.

At the very least, it could not be said that she did not look fabulous for the ceremony. Her hair was in its usual intricacy of Dothraki-style braiding to keep it up at least above her waist. She had chosen a white woolen dress and white furred overcoat, with red trim around the hems of both garments, and some white woolen gloves. Her white furred boots had been her main footwear ever since White Harbor, and she was silently glad that there was not a heel in those boots with all of the walking and standing that she’d doing recently. She also wore a black woolen cloak with the red Targaryen dragon sigil in the middle of her back. Both Jon and Daenerys had decided to forgo crowns for the ceremony – they would wait to deal with those whenever they decided to go forward with a formal coronation.

Ser Jorah came and stood by her right side, dressed up in his most formal wear, including a green tunic with the Mormont bear sigil on his chest, minus armor. “How are you feeling tonight, my Queen?”

“Much less nervous than the last time I was married, that is certain,” Daenerys chuckled.

“I do remember that first ceremony well,” Jorah said. “I could tell you were nearly terrified, but you did a good job of not letting on how you were feeling.”

“There was no ‘nearly’ about it,” Dany replied ruefully, “but you were one of the people there that made the whole experience bearable. It’s only right that you are part of this ceremony, as well.”

“It’s truly an honor, My Queen,” Jorah said with a warm smile and a bow. “If you are not nervous, then what are you feeling?”

“Anticipation, uncertainty, excitement… and at least some joy. I always thought marriage was a political matter for highborns – if Viserys had decided to marry me, that would have been a political move, and certainly that was the intention of his marrying me to Drogo. This doesn’t feel like that.”

“Despite the fact that you two will be ruling Westeros together as co-soverigns,” Jorah said, heavy with irony.

“That’s the strange part, it’s probably my most political marriage yet, but Jon is not marrying me solely for ruling’s sake. We’ve come to love each other far before we considered this. He’s the first man I’ve ever become involved with who fell in love with me despite being a queen, rather than because of it. The true irony is, if he _didn’t_ truly love me, he would still be willing to go through with this rather than sentence Sansa to another joyless, rushed marriage or one of his other siblings instead. And, even more ironically, that makes me love him even more.”

“Well, shall we proceed? Your groom awaits,” Jorah said, offering her his arm.

“Of course,” she replied as she took it. “Jon would be patient enough, but I think the remainder of the guests would want to get to bed before it becomes an entirely too late evening.”

It was the third time that she had entered the godswood, but the weight of the place had not laid on her until now. The age of the place, its history, made every step heavy for her. She thought about the generations of Starks and Northmen and women who had sacred ceremonies there for centuries in the past. The weight of history, the ways of the First Men, seemed more present here.

There was a larger audience for this ceremony than Sam and Gilly's the other evening. The ceremony was not intended to be public - in talking with Tyrion, Jon and Daenerys agreed that there would be a more public ceremony in the Faith of the Seven during their future public coronation. With the Others on their way, the prospective bride and groom did not want to waste any resources on a wedding party. However, a select few of the Northern lords, including Wyllis Manderley, Lyanna Mormont, and Robett Glover, were on hand to witness the ceremony. Daenerys and Jorah walked past them as they got closer to the heart tree.

To the left of the tree were her closest advisers - Tyrion, Missandei, and Grey Worm. To the right were Bran and Arya, alongside Howland Reed and Sam Tarley. Sansa, who would also conduct the ceremony for her brother, was immediately underneath the tree, with Jon to her immediate left.

Jon was a sight to behold. Along with his black leather trousers and boots, which now went well with Targaryen clothing, he sported a black woolen tunic with the red Targaryen sigil splashed across his chest. He wore a grey cloak that had black Targaryen and Stark sigils across the back, the direwolf head above that of the three-headed dragon. The symbolism seemed to be a bit awkward, but Tyrion and Sansa had suggested the design, saying it would be a good sign of devotion to the Stark name.

"Who comes before the Old Gods this night?" Sansa called out, her expression, at least, warm and inviting.

"Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, Queen of Westeros," Jorah replied, her hand still on his arm. "A woman grown, flowered, trueborn, and noble. She comes to beg the blessings of the Old Gods. Who comes to claim her?"

"Jon Snow, of House Stark and Targaryen," Jon replied, his eyes lighting up at the sight of his bride. "King of the North. Who gives her?"

"Ser Jorah Mormont of House Mormont, sworn sword to the bride," Jorah replied. "Your Graces." He and Daenerys walked to Jon, and Jorah took her hand and placed it in Jon's. He kneeled before the bride and groom before going to stand next to Tyrion and Missandei.

"Queen Daenerys Stormborn," Sansa said simply, "do you take this man?"

She looked up at him, and he had eyes for no one but her. _I know this man is true. I love him. _"I take this man."

Sansa nodded to them, and they knelt before the weirwood, in silent prayer. _Old Gods,_ she prayed, _if my husband or I have any of your favor, please watch over us. Protect us and our families, those we care for, those we rule. Soon, we will all be in danger._

The two finally rose to their feet. Jon stood before her and unfastened her cloak, handing it off to a nearby Missandei. He then took his own cloak and laid it over her shoulders. "I love you," he whispered, holding her head as he kissed her.

"I love you, _husband," _she whispered.

"Your Graces, you are now husband and wife. Congratulations," Sansa said. Both Jon and Daenerys were surprised to be gathered into her embrace after they finished their hug and kiss. "And as for you, Daenerys, welcome _officially_ to the family."

It was not something that Daenerys expected. "Thank you, Sansa. I appreciate your... willingness to accept me. I've... not had family for a long time."

"Yes, of course," Sansa said. Shaking her head, she said. "What am _I _doing taking up your time. Go, congratulations," Sansa said, kissing them both on the cheek in turn.

The other family and friends gathered around them to offer their personal congratulations, Arya and Missandei competing for the most vigorous hugs among them. The other lords took a moment to offer more formal congratulations, complete with the requisite kneeling and bowing, before they took their leave.

It was almost like they were any other smallfolk in the North that wanted to join together for the rest of their lives. Almost.

#

Later, very early that morning, they were together in the former King of the North’s chambers, naked together under piles of furs, recovering from another bout of lovemaking. “You have been smiling nonstop ever since the ceremony,” chuckled Dany as she ducked her head into Jon’s chest. “I know you were happy about _ this, _but…”

“As a one-time bastard, I learned to accept the luxury of once-in-a-lifetime experiences whenever they came to pass,” Jon said, kissing his new wife’s forehead. “This is one of those experiences. Something about this is just so... incredible to me, however. I never thought I would ever have the chance to have a wife. I thought I would die in the service of the Night's Watch, alone except for my fellow brothers in black. And now, I am not only married, but we now propose to rule over an entire continent." She could tell he barely even believed it as he said it. "Thousands and thousands of men, women, and children, and their fate will be decided in part because two people decided to get married in a castle godswood last night."

"To be honest, Jon, I doubt they would be much disturbed or interested even if they knew," she said. "I remember Ser Jorah once telling me, when I asked if the people of Westeros looked for the return of my family, that what the common folk pray for is rain, healthy children, and a summer that does not end. And, they hope to be left in peace."

"You know what the irony is? Those prayers seem much like my own now. They're good prayers," Jon said. "I have lost so much, but I have more than I ever thought I could when I was a bastard boy in Winterfell." He stroked the side of her face. "I love you. I would do anything for you.”

“I love you as well, and I would do the same,” Dany said. She felt brave saying it, but the Night King was coming… and they had to be ready soon. She held her husband tighter as the foreboding left her for now.

After that, no more words were needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who have been reading along for the whole thing, we're going to be spending maybe the next five chapters away from Winterfell but around Westeros as people prepare to fight the dead and/or position themselves in the game of thrones. These chapters will contain material that could have happened as early as Chapter 1 in the main timeline or maybe a little later. Hopefully, it will not be too disorienting and it will not make much of a difference in understanding the plot. Let me know if something isn't clear.
> 
> [EDIT: 1.19.2020 - needed to expand on Jon and Dany's wedding because I felt like I just blew that off in the first version of this. Let me know what you think.]


	13. The Road To Winterfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the road North, the Kingslayer and Ser Bronn of The Blackwater right a wrong. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After most of our time spent in the North and Winterfell, we’re going to jump around POV-wise, scene-wise, and time-wise. Don’t worry, we’ll get back to the Starks and the War For The Dawn soon enough.

13.

**Jaime**

Somewhere along the way, traveling had changed from being an adventure to him into being tedium.

In recent days, his mind thought back to the days when he was a teenager, newly added to the Kingsguard. Every trip away from Casterly Rock was an adventure, and King’s Landing was a vibrant and endlessly surprising place. Every trip away from King’s Landing was treasured because the Mad King had stopped venturing forth from the Red Keep in fear from potential threats to his life.

After all these years, however, the excitement of those new places faded and evolved into dark memories. Time had transformed him from a golden-haired, dashing knight seemingly without a care in the world to a worn figure with grey starting to fleck his beard and temples and a gold right hand where a capable flesh and blood hand once perched.

King’s Landing became the place where he earned the name Kingslayer, where one son was murdered and another killed himself in utter desperation, and he was never able to acknowledge his paternity when they lived. Dorne was just a warm location where his daughter was poisoned to death just as he was attempting to be a father to her. The Riverlands was just a wet place where he’d lost his hand to a blade and his heart to a woman he could never be with. Even worse, she was a better knight than he’d ever been, despite never carrying the title. _ There’s more than a little injustice in that _ , Jaime thought. _ As bad of a reputation as some knights have, we need more noble ones in the world. _

Now, the pastures, streams, and scattered woods of the Riverlands flew by him as he made his way west down the Riverroad to his intended destination. The only thing that made an impression on him was the gradually more frequent flurries drifting down from the sky, reminding Jaime that he needed to find dry shelter each night, even though he avoided staying at any taverns overnight to elude any curious eyes. He also made sure to cover his gold hand with a glove and tuck it into one of his pockets whenever he could manage it.

_ I’m relying on my sister’s incompetence, _ he pondered. _ All she has left on her Small Council are a disgraced maester, a knight somewhere between alive and dead, and a lust-ridden, overly ambitious pirate. How _ anything _ is getting done in King’s Landing is beyond me. Whatever gold is still left in the Treasury will soon be in the hands of half the sellswords of Essos, and gods only know how she’s going to pay for everything else. But if she hasn’t sent a raven out calling for her bannermen to seize me on sight… my idea might work. _

In addition to the horse he took with him from King’s Landing, he had acquired two other mounts that he led along with him, changing mounts every few kilometers to make sure he could keep going and not tire the horses out. _ I don’t want to show up at Winterfell with an empty hand, _ he thought, a quick joke at his own expense. _ Cersei promised the Dragon Queen that she’d send an army. _ I _ want to keep that promise, even if Cersei has no interest in it. Now all I need is an army… _

Thankfully for Jaime’s efforts to travel unnoticed, traffic on the Riverroad was light to nonexistent. No armies at the moment were attempting to move north or south, and with the onset of the cold and snow south of the Neck, most of the smallfolk and nobles alike were starting to hunker down in their castles or cottages, as the case might be, and making their preparations to ride out what the maesters agreed was going to be a hard winter.

_ Is it better that the people aren’t aware there’s an army of ice demons about to ravage Westeros? Should they know? It’s better for me that they don’t so I have a clear path to the North. But if I was one of the smallfolk, I’d think I’d want to know… and I’d be working as fast as I could to build a boat sturdy enough to take me to an island, any island that the Night King’s army couldn’t swim to. Seven Hells, Skagos would be preferable to Westeros if the plans of the North’s king and the Dragon Queen come to nothing. _

He sensed the rider behind him even before he saw him, the soft _ thud thud _ of horse’s hooves on a slow trot behind him just below the horizon. Most of the land immediately around was either open prairie or some farmland and pastures, but there was one small wood, really no more than a gathering of a dozen old oaks, to the right-hand side of the Riverroad. _ If there’s any chance of me getting the drop on someone, it would be there. _

After carefully tying up all three of his horses to a tree well out of sight of the road, Jaime crept back up behind the tree nearest to the road. The rider was just a speck of red in the middle of the road, bouncing up and down. Jaime eased Widow’s Wail – _ I’m going to have to rename this bloody sword when I get a chance _– out of its scabbard and held it behind his back, eyes focused on the rider.

Once he was able to make out the bronzed, hardened features of the rider, however, Jaime eased his sword back into its scabbard and started to walk up to the roadside. “I’m assuming that you aren’t here to kill me, or you would have waiting to shoot me with a crossbow as I slept,” he said to the rider.

“No, but I’ve been trying to keep up with you, and that’s been a pain in the arse,” Ser Bronn of the Blackwater said as he came to a stop in front of Jaime. In addition to the horse he was riding, he was also trailing a fresh mount behind him. Bronn had a crossbow strapped to his back in addition to his sword.

“What, you’re going to throw your lot in with me rather than Cersei?”

“You did promise me a castle, didn’t you?” he chuckled.

“So did she, and she might have more gold to promise you. There’s also the inconvenient fact that I’m off to fight the dead in the North, which isn’t going to be the easiest of jobs.”

“Well, nothing’s ever easy, is it?” Bronn replied. “Seriously, though, your sister is fucked in the head. I guess you know that since you’re out here and not back here. I might have stayed in King’s Landing, but two things put me off that.”

“What were they?” Jaime said, stepping closer to the mounted Bronn.

“First of all, I doubt she has any coin to give at the moment. The entire town is filled with sellswords from all parts of Essos, the Golden Company just the biggest of them. But nothing’s getting done in the town as far as the rest of it – food supplies have been scarce, and nobody’s picked up garbage from the streets the last week I was there. The place is even more foul than normal,” he sneered.

“What’s the other reason?” Jaime chuckled. His laughter died as he saw Bronn start to stare off into the distance. _ Haunted _ was never a word Jaime would ever use to describe the hardened sworn sword, but that seemed to be the only fitting description for him now.

“You know the wildfire caches underneath King’s Landing? The ones Cersei used to blow up the sept, most of the Tyrells, and half her remaining family?” Bronn whispered, almost to himself. Jaime’s silent nod prompted him to continue. “They’re still there, and they’ve made even more of it. I overheard Qyburn talking about it to her right before I left. The mad fuck maester was ecstatic at the fact that there was enough wildfire underneath the city to blow it up three times over. He kept repeating that, ‘three times over,’ and the bitch was laughing along with him. Unbelievable.”

The breath was sucked out of Jaime as he absorbed Bronn’s story. “So, Cersei intends…”

“…she intends that if all else fails, she lures the dragon bitch into the city along with her dragons and armies, and when they’re all within the city walls, she lights it all up and everyone gets blown to the Gods,” Bronn concluded. “I’m all right if there’s a little risk to an adventure, but pure suicide is not something I fancy.”

“Not to mention all the other people in the city,” Jaime sighed.

“But why would you… oh, sure,” Bronn corrected himself, “that’s why you stabbed the king to death, right? He was going to do the same thing?”

“There’s that, yes,” Jaime said. “But, I have one child in particular to worry about, above all else.”

“But who… right.” He stared at Jaime with both eyebrows arched. “It’s not like you can blame _ that _ one on Baratheon, right?”

Jaime had to laugh in spite of himself. “Wait here; I need to get my horses.”

As he ducked into the woods, Bronn called after him, “Wait a minute. You said you were going to go North to help out the Starks. What are you doing headed west on the Riverroad, then?”

“We told the King in the North that we were going to bring an army with us, right?” Jaime called out, hidden from the trees. “Cersei might be willing to not keep her word, but if I can avoid breaking it, I’m not going to.”

“So where are you getting an army…?” Bronn looked down the road to the horizon, then at the scenery around him. The realization hit him like a rock slide. “For fuck’s sake.”

#

The two knights paused at the rise to the east of Riverrun. Jaime remembered the pointless siege, having to threaten Lord Edmure with the death of his new son before he could be persuaded to surrender his ancestral home to the Freys, who waltzed into the castle like they’d actually earned it. Now, instead of the massed twin tower banners of the Freys, there were only a pitiful few lion Lannister banners and perhaps a small handful of Westerlands houses. Only a couple of banners from Riverlands houses could be found.

“This idea is likely full of shit,” Bronn said matter-of-factly as they took in the scene.

“Edmure Tully is one of the few people who the Riverlands could rally to at this point,” Jaime insisted. “Any soldiers we can get would be welcomed. In addition, he _ is _ the uncle of Sansa and the other trueborn Starks, and his wife and son their aunt and cousin. A family reunion likely would put the wolves in a better mood.”

Bronn’s skepticism was apparent as he leaned back in the saddle. “Of course, all this relies on the fact that these cunts haven’t gotten the word from King’s Landing that you’re a traitor to your sister the queen.”

“Half of Westeros doesn’t even know House Frey got wiped out yet,” Jaime pointed out. “Word doesn’t travel as fast as you might think it does, and my sister… my sister seems more determined to argue with the demons in her head than ruling, and certainly more determined to do that than wage war. As disorganized as things are in the capital, I’m not sure hunting me down is her top priority now. If she wanted me dead, she could have had the Mountain take my head before I could leave.”

“Interesting theory,” Bronn said. “Guess you’re keen to try it out?”

“Why not?” Jaime said. “Just make sure you’re on the fresher of your horses when we get to the gate… just in case.” He tried giving a confident grin to his old associate, but it turned into more of a grimace.

“You should probably stay away from the card tables nowadays, M’lord,” Bronn chuckled as they made their way to the drawbridge.

#

They had been waiting at the drawbridge gate for 10 minutes. “I’m waiting for them to pull out their crossbows and shoot from the walls,” Bronn drolly noted.

“I admit I’m a little nervous…” began Jaime, but he was silenced by the rumbling of the drawbridge being lowered and the main gate to the castle opening. He could see a guard in a mail suit with a Lannister crest on his chest waving them into the castle.

“Make sure I’m on the fresher horse, M’lord?” Bronn said.

_ “And _ make sure we have sight of the exits, _ and _ make sure that you have a dagger or two and some lockpick tools tucked somewhere it won’t be found,” muttered Jaime as they coaxed their horses across the bridge.

“Of course.”

They approached the Lannister sentry; Jaime was not that surprised to see a skeleton crew of a garrison at Riverrun, given the losses they had sustained in the Reach. “Ser Jaime, welcome to Riverrun.”

“Thank you, good man. How is the situation here?”

“Quiet as can be, M’lord, but I guess that’s the good news. You hadn’t heard of the Dragon Queen flying up here, have you?”

Jaime shook his head, chuckling. “None at all – more likely she’ll go straight for King’s Landing, and we’re preparing for her there. I appreciate you and your fellow soldiers keeping the peace.”

The guard seemed to let out a nervous breath at the news of the continued quiet. “You’re very gracious, My Lord. What can we do for you?”

“Need to see one of the prisoners right away.”

#

The heavy door creaked as Jaime eased in.

The room he walked into was windowless, unadorned, plain, and bare. There was a sizable bed far away from the door, not a cot. A wooden chest sat next to it. On the other side of the room, there was a wooden table with a couple of lit candles on it and two stools on either side. One man got up from one of the stools.

“Hello, Ser Jaime. Here to kill me finally?” Jaime heard.

He turned to face the man. He was dressed simply but in clean clothes – a grey woolen tunic and trousers, sensible boots. The man didn’t look dirty or injured, but his auburn hair was now long enough to brush his collar and his red beard somewhat unkempt, and he appeared thinner than he’d been in the tent outside Riverrun where he’d last seen him. “I was assuming that was why you were here,” continued Lord Edmure Tully, blue eyes blazing in the candlelight.

“Not at all, My Lord,” Jaime said, his smile bright and arms open. “I was here to right a wrong that I did to you. In the process, I hope to benefit as well, but… I do wish to make amends.”

“Amends?” Edmure scoffed, folding his arms in front of him and getting more agitated. “Am I finally going to leave this room from my family’s ancestral castle? Am I finally going to be reunited with the family I have barely seen since my wedding night?”

“As a matter of fact…” Jaime waved to the open door. On cue, a small woman with waist-long brown hair, and brown eyes, wearing a crude grey wool dress, dashed into the room and hurled herself into Edmure’s chest with such force that he had to steady himself.

“Edmure!” cried out Lady Roslin Tully.

Stunned, he unfolded his arms and drew her in. “Gods, it’s you. Where…?”

A four-year-old boy with Edmure’s hair and eyes, dressed similarly to the Tullys, toddled through the doorway followed by a Ser Bronn who found himself grinning in spite of himself. “Papa!” the child called out, wrapping his arm around Edmure’s left leg.

“What’s the boy’s name?” Jaime inquired, his thoughts inevitably drifting toward images of how his own sons had been at that age.

“Hoster, after his grandfather,” Edmure replied as his wife burrowed her head into his shoulder. He turned his head from her to Jaime, eyes now desperate rather than resigned. “This is not a trick? We are to be freed? Is there a catch to all this, Ser?”

“We will leave the castle tonight, My Lord,” Jaime said, walking over to him. He tried to reassure him with a pat on the shoulder. “As for a catch… How many bannermen do you think you could gather on short notice?”

Both husband and wife fixed Jaime with quizzical expressions. “What do you mean by short notice?” Edmure said.

Jaime took a deep breath before responding, “Immediately.”

“Seven…,” Edmure began, then looked down at his son. “_ Seven hells,” _ he whispered.

“How many, do you think?”

“If they knew I was a freed man, in command once again… maybe a couple thousand? I’m not sure. What, are you wishing me to conquer King’s Landing for you?” Edmure concluded sarcastically.

Jaime shook his head. “North, to Winterfell. They need you there.”

“I’m not helping the Red Boltons with anything…”

“They are no longer in charge of Winterfell, or living at all,” Jaime whispered to Edmure, mindful of young Hoster at their feet. “Your sister’s child, Sansa, still lives and now rules in Winterfell along with her bastard brother Jon Snow. Some of your other nieces and nephews may still live as well. Regardless, they need your help.”

“Help for what?”

Jaime fixed his eyes with Edmure. “My Lord, all of the tales our nursemaids told us as children, the tales of ice demons and the dead Beyond the Wall… it’s all true, all of it. Your niece and those who support her are preparing to fight those horrors, and then remove my sister from the throne. They need your help. Everyone’s help, really.”

“Wait… ice demons? Your sister? What about King Tomm…?” His arms dropped to his side. “It seems a lot has happened since I was locked away by my wife’s father.”

“It is true, all of it,” Jaime said. “I give you my word to you by the old gods and new that I speak the truth and that I seek to bring you and your family to safety. But we must leave now.”

Edmure looked through the door to an increasingly anxious Bronn. “If I were you, I’d take him up on the offer,” Bronn said.

The river lord’s bride looked up at him with wide eyes. “We should go now, please, Ed.”

Edmure turned to Ser Jaime. “Very well, then.”

#

Jaime’s scheme was realized in less than an hour.

There had been word to one of the Lannister captains from Jaime that Edmure had pledged allegiance to the crown and was undertaking a reconnaissance in force of the Neck for a potential attack by Queen Cersei’s forces. Edmure located the captains of his bannermen and those of his late uncle, The Blackfish, and informed them of both their true intent and the need for secrecy. Even with that luck, however, Jaime did not begin to relax his seat in his saddle until he, Bronn, the Tully family, and the couple hundred Tully and assorted bannermen immediately outside Riverrun made their way over the horizon and out of sight of the castle.

“We’ll stop along as many of the Riverlands families as we can to get more men,” Edmure said to Jaime and Bronn. “Still, if we get anywhere more than a thousand men, I’ll be pleasantly surprised.”

“We should probably be able to cross at The Twins, without the Freys able to put up a defense,” Jaime said, but then grimaced as Lady Roslin, her son in the saddle in front of her, rode next to them. “Apologies, my lady…”

“You intended no harm, Ser,” she said. “I did not say it earlier, but… thank you for freeing us.” She smoothed the hair from her son’s head as he began to snooze. “I hated seeing Hoster kept away from children, alone except for me and the odd visitor.”

“No thanks are needed, my lady,” Jaime replied. “I was merely attempting to right a wrong I helped do to your family.” He gathered himself before continuing with a question he’d had for a while. “Forgive me if this question brings up… unpleasant memories, but do you have any knowledge of what happened to your father and his bannermen? In King’s Landing, we have not had a complete accounting of what occurred.”

Edmure began riding closer to Roslin as if he planned to keep her from having to answer, but she replied, “Yes, I can speak of it.” She stared ahead at the road as she remembered. “I was not there, of course, but I talked briefly with my stepmother, my father’s most recent bride. According to her, an assassin poisoned the wine served at a feast for those bannermen, but the women and children were unharmed. My father’s body was found in a storage shed, his throat cut and apparently mutilated in some fashion, but my brother’s bodies were not found. My stepmother said the assassin disguised herself with a face that wholly resembled my father, but she unmasked herself.”

“Excuse me, _ herself?” _ Jaime said, eyes bugged out in wonder. “Some woman did this?”

Roslin nodded. “My stepmother said she was a young woman, small in stature, with dark brown hair and grey eyes. She said, ‘Tell everyone that the North remembers, and that winter came for House Frey.’” Out of the corner of his eye, Jaime saw Edmure sit up in his saddle, the reins of his horse in a death grip. “I know those are the slogans of House Stark, but I did not know the Northerners had assassins… for lack of a better name, they've started to call her the Vengeance of The North...”

“Darling,” Edmure cut in, “Hoster looks about done in. How about you take him to one of the wagons, and he can sleep there as we travel?”

Roslin turned to Jaime, who nodded. “You have been very helpful, my lady. Thank you.”

“Ser Jaime,” she said with a nod, then rode with her son to the baggage train.

As soon as Edmure’s wife was out of earshot, Jaime turned to him and said, “That description remind you of anyone you know?” Edmure looked away from him, trying to hide his expression from the knight. “Oh, come on, my lord, I’m not looking to hunt anyone down. Him and his sons were useless as allies. Westeros is no poorer with that idiot dead.”

Edmure rode up beside him, making sure that no one but Jaime and Ser Bronn, who was on the other side of Jaime, could hear. “My sister Catelyn’s youngest daughter, Arya Stark,” he whispered. “The description fits her, and she would be a young woman by now… Gods, I’m getting older, I remember when the girl was born.”

_ It couldn’t be… _ Jaime thought. “No, no, I don’t think so, my lord. I have heard of your niece. Arya Stark has not been seen publicly since Lord Stark’s death. It’s most likely she is dead.”

He was surprised to see Edmure chortle at him. “Ser Jaime, you have tried to convince me that the dead march against humanity, dragons fill the skies once again, and that your sister has managed to push her way onto the Iron Throne,” he replied. “Is it that fantastic that a young girl might still be alive in all this?”

“If it was her, it sounds like she’s got a taste for blood and revenge that would make a Sand Snake proud,” Ser Bronn commented casually from the side. “If it was her, at least.”

Bronn’s comment ended that conversation for the time being as the Riverlands lord and his family, their sworn men, and the renegade duo of knights from the Westerlands continued in a general northern direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You thought I’d forgotten about Jaime, huh?
> 
> Well, he is off to the North with an army, just not the army that was promised. As much of a strategic thinker from a military standpoint, at least, I’d think that he’d want to keep his word to the Dragon Queen somehow.
> 
> Anyway, closer to a Braime reunion, and hope you enjoyed. I think I have a really clear picture of how this will shake out, at least from a major plot point situation.


	14. The Road From Winterfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Refugees flee the North.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, sorry it took me a little longer than normal to get this out than before. Recently, I've been used to writing works in nonlinear fashion - putting together the most interesting bits together first in an outline structure, then adding in more scenes as needed until you save the most boring stuff (and the ending) for last. Trust me, it's a really good way to keep your writing nice and lean. However, that's not quite as convenient in a serial format like this is turning out to be. Well, I put together a few really nice scenes for later use, got this chapter done, and now it's all set for you.
> 
> I'm never the most patient of people, so it always irritated me when writers started something and took forever to finish it. I'm not finishing this thing tomorrow, but I am getting it done as soon as I can.
> 
> Hope you enjoy.

14.

**Gilly**

She was glad that her stomach had settled down after the first few days.

As the sun rose over the horizon on the port side of their vessel, the newly christened Lady Gilly Tarly’s sat near the bow as the sea sprayed every so often over her and young Lord Samwell Tarly heads. Even with relatively calm seas, they still felt the bumps as the waves bounced the ship’s keel.

“The water’s so _ salty,_ Mum!” young Sam. “I never knew water could be salty like that!” Even after the first week or so on the boat, that still fascinated him, even as much as the schools of fish or dolphins that would sometimes ride the bow waves from the vessel.

“It was a surprise to me, too, sweetling,” Gilly responded. “This is my first time on the ocean as well.”

“Always something new on the waves, especially when I started sailing as a young man,” a voice called out behind them. “But I still see something new every now and then even these days.”

“Ser Davos, hello,” Gilly said as she turned to greet the new Master of Sail for Queen Daenerys. “It feels strange traveling this far by ship. Usually if I ever traveled anywhere, I would be hunting or fishing to make sure we had enough to eat, or mending clothes or tents. Here I almost feel like part of the _ cargo _ than a traveler. Just wish I was more helpful around here.”

“Perhaps it’s good training to be a lady and being willing to rely on others,” Davos joked.

“That’s one of the reasons I miss Sam right now, my husband Sam,” she clarified. “Learning about how to be some highborn when I grew up as one of the Freefolk… I just feel lost, sometimes.”

“I can relate to that more than you might imagine.” Davos took a seat on a cargo barrel next to the mother and son. “I grew up a crabber’s son in Flea Bottom, and for most of my youth, I was a smuggler by trade. It wasn’t until I found myself in the service of Lord Stannis Baratheon that I had to worry about the ways of the highborn.”

Sam’s brow furrowed in puzzlement as he turned back to face the sea captain. “Ser Davos, what is a smuggler?”

Davos had to chuckle as he considered the question. “Well, little lord, probably the best definition of a smuggler is someone going someplace he’s not really supposed to go to bring people what they want or need.”

Little Sam’s eyes widened as he contemplated the meaning of his words. “Is smuggling… against the law?”

“Ahhhh… heh heh, ummm… Maybe it is, sometimes,” Davos finally said, “but that’s in the past…”

“Could you tell me a story or two about smuggling?”

“Ah, Sam, Sam,” Gilly said, patting her son on the shoulder and sharing a conspiratorial grin with Ser Davos, “that might be something we’ll wait on until later. Maybe after we get back onto dry land. Ser Davos, are we expected to get to Dragonstone today?”

“Actually, yes, My Lady,” Davos said. “We should be getting in sight of it anytime now.”

“When might we see it?” Sam said, leaning over the side of the bow as much as he dared. “I can’t see anything at the moment.”

“Ah, well, perhaps there’s a way for us to see things ahead of time,” Davos said. He reached into his coat and pulled out a brass tube with glass on each end. He pulled on each side until the tube extended to twice its previous length. “What we have here is a spyglass, little lord,” he explained. “It is a way that we can see things before they are visible to just a man’s eye. Do you want to try it out?”

With a wide grin, Sam accepted the spyglass into his hands, and then looked to his mother for what to do next. “Go ahead, Sam, but make sure you’re standing over the deck as you do it. It wouldn’t be right for the captain to have to dive overboard to get it if you dropped it.”

“All right, use your right hand to steady the end of it, like so, and use the left to put it to your eye. Right, just like that,” Davos said as he directed the young lord. “Just keep it _ close _ to your eye, don’t have to touch it right to your eye lid.”

“Hm,” Sam said after a few moments, “So far, I only see water and clouds.”

“Well, it should be out there… wait,” Davos said. “Try and point it just to the right of the bowsprit there. Yes, just a little bit. Make sure you move it slowly so you don’t miss anything.”

There was silence for a moment. “Still seeing nothing… wait.” San inched forward, still taking care not to lean over the side. “I think I see some land right here, wait.” Then there was more silence for a few moments, then… _ “Dragons! _ There’s a castle, and there’s dragons on top of it. Are they real dragons, Ser Davos?”

“No, lad, the Queen’s dragons are still up north around Winterfell. What you’re seeing there – what is it then, let me take a look.” Davos took a quick glance through the spyglass before handing it back to Sam. “Take another look. You’re seeing the castle of Dragonstone, the ancestral seat of House Targeryen even before Aegon’s Conquest. Those what you saw are statues of dragons up there, but legends say that dragons actually helped the Targeryens build the castle, both with carrying materials and their dragonfire.”

“Wow,” was all that the boy said as the island came closer and closer into view.

“I think we could make a sailor out of you yet, my boy,” Davos chuckled. As she patted Sam on the back, Gilly smiled as much as her son’s enjoyment of new experiences as the fact that they would finally have land underneath them again.

#

Young Sam expression of wonder stayed on as he and the rest of the passengers disembarked from the ships at the island’s closest port to Dragonstone, his eyes and those of a few others of his age plastered to the black stone edifice towering above them.

“Mother, can we take a look at the castle?” Sam said, head turned behind him, as he sprinted up the path leading there.

“I do think everyone’s going to be a bit occupied with settling in before that can happen,” Gilly said, gesturing for him to settle down.

“We’ll have space in the castle for you and the boy, and some of the others. I’ll get you up there myself. For the rest, we’ve got tents with hearths set up nearby the castle,” Davos said. “Even with winter coming on, it shouldn’t be as cold as it was up north. We weren’t sure how many we could transport, but we decided to make room for as much as we could.”

Gilly’s Freefolk eyes took in the landscape of the island, noting the lack of trees on the windswept fields and the scattered shrubs. “Not much of an island for growing things or hunting, is it?”

“That’s certainly true, My Lady,” Davos said, nodding. “Thankfully, the first of the ships from Slav… _ Dragons _Bay, beg pardon, have started to arrive here with extra grain supplies so that we can feed whoever comes here. The castle’s granaries are considerable, but we’re in the process of setting up some temporary granaries inside the castle to handle whatever we need.”

Gilly looked out toward the ocean, and past a collection of small fishing boats taking up space on the docks. “There are fish around these waters, though, are there not?”

“Quite so, and a good variety of fish, too, of all sizes, plus crabs and oysters and the like,” Davos said. “Some native to Blackwater Bay, but plenty more that call the open ocean home. That winds up being a good portion of the diet of those who live here full time.”

“Is there much of a difference between those fish and the ones you find up north, in the lakes, rivers, and streams?”

“Well, all of them will have certain different looks about them, different colors, sizes, like that,” Davos said as he leaned up against a pier. “Nobody ever accused me of having a refined taste, but I never could tell much difference from ocean fish to river fish after putting them over a fire and having them for a meal. _ They _might have a different taste for bait than each other, but I never went after river or lake fish, so I couldn’t rightly say how much of a difference there was.”

Gilly nodded nervously, her hands clasped before herself as she now turned to Davos. “Ser Davos… thank you for everything. I know that you will be much occupied with the refugees, and the defense of the island, but… if there is a chance later, I might ask you about what type of bait the fish around here might prefer.”

“To save time, you might talk with some of the local fishermen to see if they can give you some advice,” Ser Davos said. “I can have a word with some of them and let them know you’d be coming along. Mind, we could also slip them a few silvers for some of their catch…”

_ I’m still Freefolk, I’m not helpless, _Gilly thought as she waved the sea captain away with a smile. “That’s very gracious, Ser Davos, but I was raised to care for myself, and I need to remember how to do that. Otherwise, you tend to forget who you are and what you can do, don’t you?”

Davos grunted in response. “Actually, I can relate to that feeling, my lady, more than you might know.”

_ He was trying to help, though… _“Actually, Ser Davos, once we get to our quarters, if you would like to make some inquiries amongst the fishermen here about… proper bait and where to obtain it, I would be truly grateful.”

“Of course, my lady.” Davos bowed and gestured to the road leading to the castle. “Shall we get settled in, then?”

#

**Davos**

Two weeks after arriving at Dragonstone, Davos was at the top of one of the towers decorated with dragons, using a larger version of the spyglass he’d taught the Tarly boy to use. Due to its size and weight, it was mounted on a brass swivel attached to the floor, stabilizing it and yet allowing for its use in all directions. Even though there were lookouts in all of the towers continually on guard for approaching ships, Davos felt more comfortable that he was checking out the horizon as well.

It was fairly easy to determine what type of ships would be coming from the direction of their approach. Those ships coming from the north from the direction of Claw Isle were, obviously, ships containing refugees from the North attempting to find shelter from the Army of the Dead.

So far, there were just a few of those coming from that direction. So far, there were several thousand refugees on Dragonstone. Davos had hoped to have more problems with people finding shelter on Dragonstone, but there was still plenty of places to put new people on the island. The alternative was that either those that could not fight had not made their way to White Harbor, or that they had already involuntarily entered the service of the Night King’s army. He hoped that a third option, that the fact that all males and females in good health and strength from around two or three and ten and upwards were being considered of “fighting age,” especially considering how desperate things were getting. _ At least there was the chance of negotiating with Cersei, as slim as it was, _ Davos thought.

Any ships from the east were supply vessels from Dragon’s Bay. Most of the food was grain, wheat and barley from Essos, but there were some smoked meats and other food that was able to be preserved over a long period. Only about one-third of the ships were stopping at Dragonstone; the remainder headed straight to White Harbor and the bellies of the North. From all of the estimates the castle staff had given him, they’d already received enough rations for the people already on the island a few times over. From the ravens he’d received from White Harbor, nearly all of the vessels were arriving on time, so at least _ that _ wasn’t a concern.

He’d been worried that the Iron Fleet of Euron Greyjoy would saunter from the west out of Blackwater Bay to see what havoc they could wreak on Dragonstone. When he wasn’t busy trying to marshal ships in and out of Dragonstone’s port and settling refugees into any open space, he had been preparing a reception in case the Kraken came calling.

There were picket ships on watch to the west, a handful of fireships that could be sent into an enemy formation to break it up, and some of their heavier vessels on patrol nearer to the port. He had even set up a series of chain barriers, supported by floating wooden buoys several hundred yards to the west of the island. They wouldn’t bring a ship, especially a heavy ship, to a complete halt, but it would certainly slow them down enough and limit their maneuverability to leave them vulnerable to either ramming or flaming ballistas.

But every day he’d scanned the western horizon for approaching ships with the kraken sigil, he’d come up empty. The garrison on the island had confirmed that Theon Greyjoy had set off west toward Blackwater Bay and King’s Landing, in search of his sister, but there had been no word as to whether he had succeeded, failed, or even had made contact with the enemy fleet. With extra ballistas set up on the western approaches of Dragonstone, he was feeling more confident that his ships and men would put up a tough enough fight that any Ironborn marines who managed to make it to shore would be easily dispatched by the combination of Dothraki warriors and some of the Westerlands and Reach soldiers who had pledged their service to Daenerys after the Battle of the Loot Train. They were as ready for a fight as they could be… even though the longer he spent at Dragonstone, the less sure he was that the fight would be forthcoming.

After he was satisfied that there was to be no imminent Ironborn invasion, Davos decided to swing his spyglass to face toward the south. Any ships from that direction would come around the easternmost portion of Massey’s Hook, on the easternmost tip of the Crownlands, to make a direct northern course for Dragonstone.

In the two weeks he’d been on the island, there had not been a single ship in that direction. When he thought about it, Davos realized that he shouldn’t have been surprised. With Ellaria Sand apparently lost or dead in King’s Landing, there was a great deal of uncertainty about who was in charge in Dorne at the moment. They were unlikely ready to contact Daenerys yet, but in addition, he doubted Cersei had any troops to spare to attempt to try and take Dorne herself. For someone who claimed to rule the Seven Kingdoms, Cersei only had solid control of the Crownlands and perhaps the Stormlands, nominal at best control of the Reach, Westerlands, and Riverlands, and no rule whatsoever over the North, the Vale, or Dorne. With that in mind, and the fact that the naval power of the Stormlands had started to decline since the Battle of the Blackwater and all but collapsed after the death of Stannis Baratheon, he was not expecting any hostile ships from that direction, either.

Or any ships, of that matter. After five years of near-continual warfare, Westeros had become a tired land, awaiting the last act of what had been a tedious spilling of blood. The fact that just a few years ago there had been five kings running around claiming power pretty much said it all about what was going on. From the chatter he had heard from the ship crews arriving and departing from Dragonstone, it was only now that the majority of the smallfolk had heard that it was two queens rather than a handful of kings that fought for control of the continent.

Except for the Northern crews, there was no talk at all of a Night King or armies of the dead. _ If we don’t stop them at Winterfell, Dorne might be the safest place, with its warmth and the mountains and swamps guarding its borders. Maybe we _ do _ need to get in touch with whoever is in charge there… _ No, most of Westeros was settling in for a winter they knew was going to be hard and might be longer than they expected. _ They can tell _ that’s _ coming just by going outside and looking around, _ he thought. _ Smallfolk will try and prepare for the trouble that’s right in front of them and let the worries of others be the worries of others… _

A flutter of white to the south stopped his thoughts in their tracks. It was a caravel, a ship common to southern Westeros and used to carry both passengers and cargo. It was hugging the coast, making good time with the winds blowing west across its port side.

He was frozen into place for nearly a half hour as it came into sharper view, wondering about the caravel’s business and who was on board. The sails on the ship were pure white, with no house sigil adorning them. At the beginning, the vessel was too far out from Dragonstone to make out anything other than its shape, but was there anything…?

Finally, he spotted the pennant on the top of the mainmast. He could barely make out the form of a black sailing ship… _ with a white onion on its mainsail… _

He took three separate glances at the pennant before he was sure. Leaving the spyglass in its cradle, he rambled down the tower’s staircase as fast as his aging sea legs could take him.

Perhaps it was best that the ship took its time with its approach to the island, given that he had to work his way through the numbers of people who were in line for food supplies at the castle or workers who continued to prepare defensive works near the shoreline of Dragonstone.

He skidded to a stop on the main pier just as the ship tacked toward it to dock. He was only slightly surprised to see Lady Gilly at the far end of the dock with her son, fishing poles extended out toward the water and metal buckets of bait and that day’s catch by their side. “Afternoon, Ser Davos.”

“Afternoon, My Lady,” he said, with a short bow toward her. “Any luck today?”

“There’s quite a few cod and smaller fish around, surely,” she said, pointing toward the buckets. “Might be able to get a good stew or soup out of it. The castellans say that they do grow some potatoes and vegetables around here, at least, so maybe we can nab a few of those.” She turned to look at the ship. “Someone important coming in?”

“Well…”

_ “Poppa!” _ he heard from a voice on the starboard side. He looked up to see his oldest surviving son, Devan Seaworth, waving at him from the siderail of the ship, sporting an excited grin. _ He’d be… seven and ten now? Gods. It’s been too long… _

“Devan!” Davos called out. “It’s been too long! You brought your brothers with you, right?”

“Of course.” He nodded as his brothers, four and ten Stannis and three and ten Steffon poked their heads over the rails as well. They shared Devan’s short brown hair and chestnut brown eyes, yet had a roundness and warmth in their features that hinted at their mother. “You always promised to take us to Dragonstone someday, right?”

“I did, I did.” Davos said as the sailors on the vessel and the dock workers began to cast and tie up lines. He gestured for those on the ship to extend a gangplank down to the dock.

The minute that the gangplank landed with a _ thud _ onto the dock, all three boys, who were dressed more like sea urchins who’d grown up on a ship rather than sons of a knight half-ran, half-tumbled down it to land in a heap next to their father and gather him in to a group hug. “Poppa, we missed you, we missed you a lot,” Steffon chirped.

“We did,” Stannis insisted.

“I missed you too, never doubt it,” Davos said as he gathered them to him, tears just starting to form in the corner of his eyes. “Lads, where’s your m…?”

“I’m here, my sea dog,” a warm, worn voice called up from the top of the gangplank.

He looked up. The woman he saw there was the same one that had been in his memories of his youth, always there willing to love him despite being just a smuggler from Flea Bottom so many years ago. There were a couple of streaks of iron grey in the luscious brown hair, true. She seemed perhaps a touch rounder in shape than she had been when they first met, but she seemed to be rounder in all the right places as far as he was concerned. Her smile was bright as in her girlhood, but it wasn’t quite reaching her chestnut brown eyes as both she and he started to cry in earnest.

“How did you get here so quickly?” Davos said as Marya Seaworth climbed down the plank.

“We got the raven from your Lord Snow a few weeks ago when he suggested we make our way to Dragonstone.” She raised her hand to cut off Davos’ protest. “I know you asked us to come here, as well, but your lord beat you to it. We did get your raven by the time we were at port to leave.”

Davos slumped in surprise as he silently thanked the generosity of his lord. “I’m grateful that you got my message, at least.”

“Yes.” She walked up to her husband and their children huddled around him. With her right hand, she cradled his chin and brought his face in for a soft but solid kiss. “You have been away from us for far too long, and I’m still not happy about that,” she whispered sternly into his right ear, so even their children nearby could not hear. With a sigh, her face softened and relaxed in the way that it always did before he was to be forgiven. “But, I’m glad you wrote us, and I’m glad we’re here now.”

Davos brought her in for a hug of his own. “I’m very glad you and the boys are here.”

Marya looked around at the growing number of tents dotting the island next to the castle and the activity around the shoreline. “So, what is the Hand of the King of the North doing here in Dragonstone?” she asked.

“Well…” Davos began, “I got promoted, I suppose, from that to Master of Sail for the rightful king and queen of Westeros, Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen.”

That brought her up short. “So, a bastard lord of the North is going to try to claim the Iron Throne by marrying a Targeryen princess? A bit ambitious, you think?”

“Well, it’s a bit more than it seems,” Davos replied. Now noting her confusion, he added, “It’s going to take a while to explain all of that, I think.”

“Ser Davos, is this your family?” Gilly said as she approached the reunited Seaworth clan. She realized she was carrying a fishing pole with her, and set it down on the dock.

“Ah, yes, it is, my lady,” Davos said. “My wife Marya, my sons Devan, Stannis, and Steffon. Marya, this is Lady Gilly Tarly, who is sheltering here.”

“A pleasure to meet you, my lady,” Gilly said.

“Nice to meet you, my lady,” Marya said. “Getting in on the day’s catch, then? Any luck?”

A bit surprised by Marya’s interest, Gilly answered it straightforwardly. “A few here and there, but pretty modest, so far.”

“My husband has said fishing in these waters is something like feast or famine,” Marya said. “Pardon me for asking, m’lady, but I met Lord Randall Tarly once or twice, and I never got the feeling that he ever wanted the ladies of his family to do anything that could be considered unladylike. Not that I ever troubled myself with those worries, mind…”

“Well…,” Gilly began, “Lord Randall is no longer among the living, and I’m a Tarly by marriage, not by birth. I was raised among the Freefolk, Beyond the Wall.”

As Marya’s eyes widened, Steffon was the first one to speak up. “Beyond the Wall? Did you ever see giants?”

“Any grumpkins or ice spiders?” Stannis piped up.

“Boys, boys,” Davos pleaded, “Lady Gilly might be willing to talk later, but let’s get settled in… they’re bringing your things off the ship? Good. Listen, boys, Lady Gilly’s son Sam is getting in some fishing there, mind if you give him some pointers? Lady Gilly and I are going to show your mother to where we’ll be staying.”

Scattered shouts of “OK” followed the retreating boys. Devan looked over his shoulder as he followed his older brothers. “You’re staying here, right, Poppa?”

“Yes, I am, my boy,” Davos replied. “I’m here to keep an eye on the ships and the island.”

“Good. See you soon, Poppa.” The boys soon surrounded Sam, introducing themselves to the younger boy who basked in their attentions and advice on fishing techniques.

As Davos and Gilly walked with Marya to the castle, the older woman asked her, “So, if you were Freefolk, how did you meet a Tarly, then?”

“My husband used to serve in the Night’s Watch and I met him during his service,” she said matter-of-factly. “Queen Daenerys gave him leave from the Watch to marry me.”

That was even more of a surprise to Mayra than the Freefolk revelation. Eyebrows raised, she commented, “It seems like you’ve had about as interesting of a life these past few years as my husband has.”

“It’s been eventful,” Gilly agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, hope that was a nice little interlude. For those wondering, I basically combined show Davos (one son dying at the Blackwater) and book Davos (three sons still left after Blackwater). My answer for why is... because I wanted to. And, I felt bad Davos not having a family around. He deserves better than that, tbh.
> 
> Anyway, we're going to make one more stop up in the Great White North, and then, we'll have to check out what's been going on in King's Landing...
> 
> As always, hope you enjoy and reach out in the comments. I appreciate them all, by the way, even the ones I haven't responded to. Thanks to all.


	15. Last Hearth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Freefolk and the Night’s Watch make their escape with the refugees of the far north.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone,
> 
> I'm going to be real, this was probably the one chapter I wasn't massively excited about. It shows stuff, but... if you have any constructive criticism especially, let me know in the comments and I'll likely do something about it.
> 
> However, I did think that it never made sense in S8 that Tormund and Edd would get to Last Hearth after the dead since they were running away from them. Hence this scene.

15.

**Ned Umber**

_ He was four and ten and had the lives of his household in his hands. _

That realization hadn’t hit him before, when his father was dead and he had sworn his service to the King of the North along with Alys Karstark, in front of all of the great lords of the North. It hadn’t hit him when he had returned home to prepare his bannermen and household for the oncoming battles against the Army of the Dead. It hadn’t hit him until he’d received the raven from Winterfell two days ago, with the message that he still kept in a pocket since then. It read:

_ The Army of the Dead has breached the Wall by Eastwatch by the Sea. They are expected to reach Last Hearth imminently. You are commanded to evacuate your household from there immediately and proceed south. All those capable of fighting should join our forces at Winterfell, while the rest should go to White Harbor for their safety and evacuation to Dragonstone. For your safety and the safety of your house, this must be done with all possible speed. _

_ Yours Sincerely, _

_ Jon Snow _

_ King of The North _

As he read those words, a single thought stuck in his mind, drowning out all else. _ Father and Mother are dead and I’m all alone. _

The maester was there as he read the note, of course, so at least he wasn’t left to himself to cower in fear and indecision. The maester of Last Hearth summoned its castellan, words were said, and the preparations were made as he sat in silence behind the desk his father had always used for his paperwork.

During the next day, Ned felt half incompetent and half relieved as the preparations went underway without him. On one hand, he felt like he should be out there, helping with what needed to be done. On the other hand, however, he felt so overwhelmed with what he faced that maybe it was best that he not take full charge.

Now he stood on the north wall of Last Hearth, looking in the direction of the Wall for… _ something, _ some sign of either danger or relief. He was still slight of stature enough that he needed to stand on a crate to make sure he could see over the battlements. Pale, with a slight build and soft, light brown hair framing wide green eyes, he didn’t look like he came from a line of tough Northern warriors.

Ser Edric, the castellan for Last Hearth, approached him as he stood facing north, hoping in a way not to find anything. “Is everyone almost ready to leave?” Ned asked.

“Maester Howland says preparations should be finished in a half hour, no more,” Ser Edric said. “All we are taking are anything remaining in the food stores, tents for shelter, warm clothes and weapons. The rest will be too much to weigh us down.”

“Understood,” Ned said. He was too nervous about getting caught by any creatures to want to take a whole trunkload of things with him. It was a good thing that, for a highborn lord, he really didn’t have a lot of frivolous items like a number or toys or many fancy clothes. _ Being from the North is a benefit that way _, he thought.

_ ...wait. What was that on the horizon? _

There was a flicker of movement on the open fields of the northeastern corner of the horizon, away from the woods. He could barely make it out, but… “Ser Edric! Look out there! There, to the northeast. Could that be the Army of the Dead?”

“Let me look, M’Lord.” He already had his spyglass out and pointed toward the northeast. There were a tense few moments as he scanned the horizon, seeking out movement. Finally, Ser Edric let out a deep breath. “It’s all right,” he said, “just some more people headed toward us. Not the dead.”

Ned turned to him, confused. “How can you tell from this distance…?”

“Take a look for yourself, M’Lord,” Ser Edric said, handing him the spyglass and pointing toward where he saw the movement. “See those little dots of light amongst them? The dead have no need for torches, M’Lord.”

#

Although the Last Hearth household and bannermen were ready to march within the half hour as promised by Maester Howland, they waited for another half hour until the visitors had made it to the castle. The gates of Last Hearth were open and Lord Umber, Ser Edric, and Maester Howland stood in front to greet the visitors.

As they came into view, Ned saw that they belonged to two different groups of people. The first group were exclusively men, all fitted in the all-black furs and wools of the Night’s Watch. Even Ned, whose first memories included seeing a detachment of the Watch riding south to pick out new recruits, recognized them for who they were. The second group, which included a handful of women of fighting age, were dressed in a variety of wolf, bear, mammoth, and other animal skins, and barely appeared civilized. Ned recognized them as wildlings - there were even a few who had the distinctive facial markings of the Thenns. What the two groups did have in common were that they were heavily armed, carried little in the way of baggage, and appeared at first glance not to have slept any or at all the past several days.

Two men approached Ned and his welcoming party. The first, dressed in Night’s Watch garb, was lean and stringy, with a weathered face framed with long, straight black hair and a thin black beard. The second man might have been one of the largest men he’d ever seen, even larger than his late father. He had flaming red hair and beard, grinning despite being obviously as footsore as his companions, the same dark circles under his eyes as theirs. He slung two battle axes into sheaths on his back as he approached Ned.

“Visitors, welcome to Last Hearth,” Ned said in a voice he was surprised sounded confident and assured. “I’m Lord Ned Umber of House Umber.” After briefly introducing his household staff, he asked, “do you bring news of the dead?”

The smaller of the two men spoke up. “Eddson Tollett, M’Lord, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.” He gestured to the red giant. “This is Tormund Giantsbane, leader of the Freefolk. The dead are behind us and approaching quickly. We were going to suggest you join us on the road south.”

“That was our intention, Lord Commander, but we decided to wait for your escort since you were so close,” Ser Edric said. “What detachment of the Night’s Watch is this?”

Edd stared at the knight in disbelief, then turned and waved at his fellow crows. “This is it, this is the lot of us,” the Lord Commander said. “Once Eastwatch fell, the rest of us abandoned Castle Black and joined these fellows to get to Winterfell. That’s where the King in the North is going to make his stand.”

Ned was the son and grandson of two experienced warriors in Greatjon and Smalljon Umber, but he was still inexperienced in the ways of warfare. However, he remembered from his studies reading something about how the Night’s Watch numbered about 1,200 warriors a few decades previously, and the men in black in front of him… if it were a count of 200 men it would be generous. _ That’s not good, _ Ned thought to himself. There were maybe twice as many Freefolk there as members of the Watch.

It was Tormund, of all people, who seemed to sense Ned’s unease at the numbers. “No worries, little lord, there’s more of the Freefolk back in Winterfell along with the rest of them.”

Another warrior from the arriving group walked up to them. He was a hardened, grizzled man, with graying brown hair and beard and sporting a patch over one eye, yet dressed more like a southern soldier, with leather armor and steel cuirass, than someone from anywhere in the North. “Pardon me, lords,” he said. “I’m Ser Beric Dondarrion, with these men. Do you have any news of Karhold or House Karstark?”

“We received a raven from them this morning,” Maester Howland said. “They abandoned Karhold two days ago and are traveling down to White Harbor by boat from the river there. Their fighting men will then go North from there to Winterfell.”

“Thank the Lord of Light for that,” Beric said. “There’s no way we could get that far east in time to bring them with.”

“OK, then, best you come with us, now,” Tormund said. “The dead aren’t too far behind us.”

“Perhaps six hours, I would say,” Ser Beric said. “One of the problems with being chased by the dead is that they don’t have to rest or sleep.”

“But, maybe we can slow them down here, because they’re eager for new recruits,” Edd said. He waved behind for some of his men to come forward. “C’mon, lads, bring them up.”

The men in black carried with them a half-dozen dead men with them, some of their comrades in arms who had fallen on the wall. “What’s this?” Ned said.

“Begging your pardon, M’Lord, but we’re using these as decoys, to put on the keep’s walls,” Edd replied.

“More meat for their army if we leave them sitting around,” Tormund said in surprise.

“What’s your plan?” Ser Edric said.

The Lord Commander turned to him. “We set the poor bastards on the walls up here, as if they’re standing watch,” he explained. “We secure the doors and any other entrances there are here, bar them shut. We keep the fires burning, make anyone approaching from a distance think there’s people still in this place.”

The one-eyed knight nodded beside Edd. “Even if it slows them down for a half-hour or hour, it might give us the time we need to escape them.”

Maester Howland nodded. “It might work.”

Tormund shrugged. “What’s a half-dozen men added to an army of 100,000 or more? Plus, if it saves our skins…”

Ned turned to his men. “Make it so. Help them with setting up the men and getting the fires going, and we will go out with you.”

Ser Edric nodded. “Me and a couple of the boys will stay here after the rest get outside and we’ll make sure the gate is secured. Don’t worry about us, My Lord – we’ll use ropes to climb down from the south wall after we’re done.”

#

Within an hour, Ned was well south of the place he’d called home for most of his life. As he walked backwards facing the castle, he could make out the torches on the walls still burning and the specks of the few dead men in full battle gear standing sentinel with sightless eyes. _ If I didn’t know better, I might be fooled by it, _ Ned thought to himself.

He was surrounded by a mass of people walking with only slight difficulty through the gradually deepening snow, a mix of Night’s Watch, Freefolk, and the bare remnants of House Umber. Maester Howland had said that there were perhaps 150 fighting men of his house remaining, and about 200 women, children, and workers. _ We’re all that’s left _, Ned thought, and he felt alone again, despite all that were walking around him.

It was Ser Beric that Ned found standing next to him on the right and who surprised him with a hand on his shoulder. “You’ll be back there soon enough, my lord,” he said. “The people you’re responsible for will not meet Death tonight, and that’s a victory in itself. I think your parents would be proud of what you did.”

“Thank you, Ser Beric,” Ned said. _ It’s true that Ser Edric and Maester Howland made most of the arrangements, but my word was the last one. I don’t know exactly what I’m doing, but I hope that they are proud of me. _ Giving a final nod to the retreating keep, Ned Umber went with his people and their allies south and to safety.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter might take until late next week but... we're headed to King's Landing, everyone! Hope you enjoy it.
> 
> [Edit 11.17.2019: Maybe another week, but trust me, I'm dedicated to finishing this thing. I've already got the last chapter in my head and everything.]


	16. The Winds Over Kings Landing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tensions grow among Queen Cersei, what remains of her court, and the residents of her capital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And you are getting a midweek chapter update... just because. (Plus, I finished it a little later than I'd planned.)
> 
> Anyway, here's our first look at King's Landing in the story, and Cersei. Hope you enjoy.

16.

**Cersei**

Giving up wine was always difficult for her, whenever she’d been pregnant. She was missing wine the most of all with this last one, however.

Qyburn had recommended that she try and get as much fresh air as possible, so during the afternoon of that day, she had a few of the servants bring a resting couch onto the balcony facing Blackwater Bay. With its stone overhang, she could stay out of the rays of the slowly sinking sun behind her, rest, and breathe in the fresh sea air drifting in off the bay.

This was the only balcony where being outdoors was a pleasant experience anymore. In any other direction, the small of the burning garbage and rising raw sewage would have been too overpowering to ignore. The overall condition of the smallfolk, how they seemed to be getting grimier, thinner, and more quiet with each passing day, was not something she wanted to gaze down on, either.

She was beginning to understand why the Mad King stayed in the Red Keep all of the time in his latter years. Not that she thought she was mad.

With all of the danger, all of the uncertainty, it now made total sense for her to stay in the keep. First, there was the danger of the Dragon Bitch and her northern bastard ally. Their armies combined were more than a match for any forces she had at the moment, thanks to the disaster of the Battle of the Loot Train. Sure, she’d eliminated the Tyrells and any rebellious activity from the reach right after hobbling Dorne as a serious threat, but the defeat in the fields returning to King’s Landing had decimated both her Reach bannermen and at least half of the bannermen of the Westerlands.

She remembered that shortly before leaving for the Reach, Jaime had said that she was queen, at best, of three of the Seven Kingdoms. Only privately to herself, not even anyone around her, she would admit that was a generous assessment.

The North, the Vale, and Dorne, the elimination of Ellaria Sand and her elder Sand Snakes aside, were lost to her as territories. She had no prospect of regaining them, either through forces of her own or allies of the past, such as the now-extinct House Bolton and her former Small Council member Littlefinger. The Westerlands, Riverlands, and Reach were nominally loyal to her, true. But, Casterly Rock was all but vacant and useless to all, and the Westerlands bannermen were stretched trying to preserve whatever hold she had on all of Westeros. The Tyrells were gone, but so was, apparently, House Tarly and most of his allies. House Frey’s decimation in the Riverlands had required the Lannisters to return there, this time permanently.

The last two kingdoms of Westeros she held with one hand rather than both. Her betrothed Euron held the Iron Islands for her, but there were still some Ironborn who rebelled against him, including that missing nephew of his. She held the rule of the Stormlands by right of her marriage to Robert, but not even she had been mad enough to claim her unborn child as the heir to Storm’s End. More than a couple of Stormlands lords were thinking that they might be a better long-term solution to the power vacuum there, and she was beginning to think that she might have to assent to those desires to keep their loyalty. If it came to that, House Trant might be the best choice. Ser Mervyn was apparently no longer among the living, if Qyburn’s birds from Braavos were to be believed, but the new lord, Ser Mervyn’s nephew Wylliam Trant, would be someone she could work with.

None of those Seven Kingdoms mattered, however, without the crown jewel, King’s Landing. She had it, and the Dragon Bitch didn’t. And if she ever _did_ try to take it, breaking her word (she gave no thought to her own broken oaths), she would face a reception that would see the Targaryen pretender die rather than a seat on the Iron Throne.

More inconveniences had started to pile up, partly due to the stresses of rule, partly due to oncoming winter, and some a combination of both. As she leaned back on her couch, she pulled her thick brown fox fur robe around her tightly to keep out the more than occasional winter breeze that now came in from the bay. Ser Gregor stood mute and on guard several paces behind her – if the cold had any negative or unpleasant effect on him now, he kept that knowledge to himself. For the first time in her recent memory, flurries had begun to fall on King’s Landing – _none that day, thank the Seven._ It was just another reminder that the bounty of the long summer was now over and there would be even fewer of the things that made life worthwhile. Like wine.

And of course the smallfolk had started to whine. Qyburn had mentioned that his birds had heard more complaining of ever smaller rations, of garbage that now was growing in ever higher piles that never seemed to be carted away. _What do they expect?_ she thought. _It costs money for us to get enough sellswords to protect this realm. Where are they expecting us to get that, _them? _Father and Littlefinger allowed the Lannister gold mines to be run dry, and nothing of value was left to use as trading goods. No, best stay in the Red Keep and not give the smallfolk a target to lash out at with words or much worse._

It was strange – her family’s motto referred to how they always paid their debts, but her kingdom was now in a situation where money was almost an afterthought. _The Iron Bank is the new Master of Coin in Westeros – I’m probably going to have to go to war with _them_ assuming all goes well against the Dragon Queen and the dead, _she thought. _The best-case scenario is that the Dragon Queen and her Northern man-whore wipe out the dead at the cost of the majority of their forces, and I take them apart on the fields before King’s Landing after blowing up the bitch and her dragons with wildfire after they try to fly over the city and burn it themselves. Worst-case scenario is if I have to blow the entire city up with wildfire and _nobody’s_ left in charge, not that I care what happens after I’m dead. Or, would the worst-case scenario be me having to escape King’s Landing with Euron and his fleet to avoid the dead, running to one of the Free Cities, or, the Seven forbid, _Pyke? She shook her head, even her sweetling kicking someplace low in her womb in protest. _Never Pyke_._ Hopefully he docks in Pentos or Qarth and I’m able to either slip away or he gets bored and goes back to the sea and his reaving. I need to make sure I have enough gold and jewelry with me for that trip if the time comes… running from Westeros would almost be worth it to see the expression on the leaders of the Iron Bank realizing they weren’t going to get paid…_

As she savored that image of panicked Essoi bankers clad in silks and perfume, she shifted her weight on the couch to best cradle the growing child in her womb. He – she seemed almost certain it would be a _he_ – had been growing inside her for around seven moonturns. Now she was getting into – no pun intended with her Ironborn betrothed – dangerous waters.

Euron had made a show at court and in front of her declaiming that he was the father of her child. She had done nothing to dissuade him of this belief, despite the fact that anyone with decent skills at maths would have been able to work out that her latest child would be due a lot sooner than otherwise expected, given the start of their physical relationship. Whether he _truly_ believed he was the father was a fact tucked away in the pirate admiral’s mind, with no hints to Cersei or anyone else.

If the child came early, that would allow her to be more mobile and easier to escape when the time came, but it would make it harder for everyone to pretend that Euron would be the father. If it came later, that would be easier to pass off, but that would mean that she would be far less mobile in the event that the dead did come to King’s Landing. The longer she thought about it, the more she thought that she’d have to find an opportune time for Ser Gregor to bash in Euron’s head or run him through with his sword…

She put away those thoughts for a moment as Qyburn strolled out from behind her and came to a stop by her side, pulling his black woolen robes closer to his body than usual to ward away the chill from the sea breezes. “Yes?” she said.

“Harry Strickland is ready to give you the report you requested,” he replied. “Euron and the other captains of the sellsword companies are there to give the latest reports regarding the movements of the enemy.”

“Fine,” she groaned. She swung her legs over the couch and onto the ground to rise, but she realized that she wouldn’t have enough momentum to get up gracefully even with that assistance, given her watermelon-sized baby bump. Cersei raised one of her arms up to Qyburn. “If you would, My Hand…”

With just a nod, he was there and took hold of her arm with both hands. Just a minimum of leverage from him was required to raise her to a standing position.

#

In consideration of her condition, Cersei found a padded armchair waiting for her in the courtyard with the map of Westeros laid out before her. It was well-stuffed, finished with red leather on the cushions and the arm rests. With a minimum of fussing, Cersei settled herself into the seat as a pair of servants swept the last of the flurries and dust from the map.

She sat in front of the lengthwise middle of the map, as close to the section showing King’s Landing as she could get without walking on it. Qyburn and Ser Gregor flanked her on each side. As she looked at the three other men surrounding the map, her father’s advice about relying on your advisers came to mind. _I’m running out of people to advise me, it seems,_ she thought.

Euron stood directly in front of her, grinning and hands tucked into his coat pockets, and attired as finely as he was capable of in a long black leather coat, trousers, and boots, complete with a leather cuirass with the Kraken emblazoned across the front. _He seems to be in a far better mood than he has a right to be,_ she thought.

To Euron’s right was Ser Harry Strickland, the captain of the Golden Company. He was a shade taller than Euron, with light brown hair and green eyes and a handsomeness that was an echo of Jaime in his younger years, at least in Cersei’s eyes. He was without his iconic gilded helmet, but he was prepared for the parade ground in gilded plate armor, the legendary Valyrian steel sword Blackfyre attached to his hip in a gold-embossed scabbard, and a crimson cloak over his shoulders. His expression was as neutral as could be. Cersei reminded herself that she needed to keep the knowledge of the wildfire underneath King’s Landing away from him and the other sellswords – such knowledge might get them thinking about breaking their contracts.

The third man was Roraz Hizir, captain of the Wild Jackals Company based in Pentos. Hizir had been deputized to be the representative of the other half dozen Essoi sellsword units serving the Iron Throne. Although he had none of the stature of the golden captain or the Salt King, Hizir certainly played the part of a sellsword well, dressed in a purple and green Essoi silk tunic, light brown leather trousers and riding boots, two curved Pentos-crafted scimitars on each hip, and two heavy golden hoop earrings framing a rough face made memorable by sky-blue eyes, a frequently broken nose, short black hair, and a drooping mustache of the same color.

“You had a report, Ser Harry,” Cersei said, leaning back in the chair.

“All 10,000 men of the company are outfitted and ready to either hold here or go forward, depending on Your Grace’s wishes,” Strickland said. “Of those men, we have 1,000 of cavalry, and another 300 or so men wrangling 100 war elephants. Your Hand has also ensured the distribution of 50 scorpions for our men. We’ll be able to mount those onto wagons to take with us, no worries.”

“Both the elephants and scorpions will come in handy against the Ursurper’s minions, surely,” Cersei said. “How are the provisions for your men and beasts?”

“Good for now,” Strickland nodded. “I have seen how food storage for the capital is tight, but we have enough to sustain us for at least the next few months. After that, I fear that we will need resupply.”

“A similar situation with our companies as well,” Hizir said. “All are ready and supplied, but I fear we will run out in three months time.”

“Captain, how many men did you and your fellow sellsword leaders bring with you to King’s Landing?”

“All told, a little more than 20,000 men. Just under 4,000 of that would be cavalry.”

“And my betrothed, you have currently at your command…” Cersei said, honey covering the underlying vinegar of her mood.

“15,000 sailors and marines, give or take, under my command among 400 ships,” Euron said. Spreading his arms wide, he said, “We have no concerns about our supplies. The fishing in Blackwater Bay has been surprisingly bountiful.”

“Good to know,” she replied, managing to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. “And for the rest of those under our command…?”

“There are 4,000 of the goldcloaks and Lannister guards manning the defenses of King’s Landing and keeping the general peace,” Qyburn replied. “Away from Kings Landing, we of course have Lannister, other Westerlands, and Reach bannermen holding various locations for us, but those number perhaps 10,000 in total, not much more, that we can count on. Perhaps more could be rallied to our side…”

“What is more important for us to know is the size and disposition of the enemy forces. And, their intentions,” Cersei shot back, cutting him off abruptly but without emotion.

As he carried a walking stick roughly his height, Qyburn walked out to the map. “From the reports of my birds and Euron’s scouts in Blackwater Bay, we know there are two main locations for the Targaryen’s forces,” he said. He tapped the stick at Dragonstone. “We know that a good portion of her forces are here, but not the majority of them. There also have been no sightings of her dragons or the Targaryen since just after our meeting in the Dragonpit.”

“There are a good number of warships around Dragonstone, but they are arranged in defensive positions, and none enough to challenge my fleet,” Euron said. “It appears as though they are seeking to hold the island, but not use it to spring an attack on King’s Landing by sea.”

“As we passed Dragonstone along the north coming here, we saw convoys of ships going in and coming out of there,” Hizir said.

“All of those are cargo ships,” Euron said, waving him off. “My scouts have marked them well. All they are loading onto the island are women and children and grain, not soldiers. The Dragon Bitch is not there. Since she’s not on Dragonstone, the attack is not coming from there.”

“I would agree with the admiral,” Qyburn said, nodding and walking north on the map to White Harbor. “The birds have pinpointed her docking at White Harbor. The self-claimed King of the North, Jon Snow, was with her as well. Both of the dragons we saw at the Dragonpit were with them. It appears that the Targaryen’s priorities are now in the North.”

“They’re actually going to fight whatever these dead are rather than us. Incredible,” Cersei said, shaking her head in disbelief. “Perhaps the Dragon Bitch has a taste for brooding men… Qyburn, what are their forces as they now stand?”

“Not counting the two dragons, of course,” he replied, “current estimates are that she has 50,000 Dothraki warriors, the vast majority of those light or archer cavalry. She has 8,000 Unsullied hoplites, very disciplined, very tough. There are 10,000 Knights of the Vale that are now pledged to their cause, with Lord Robin supporting his cousin Lady Sansa. Of the northerners it is tough to estimate – anywhere between 10 and 20,000 overall. The wildlings also now follow Jon Snow. There are perhaps 5,000 of their fighters, unorganized but fierce.”

Cersei grimaced at that. Even at the lower end of those estimates, Daenerys and the northerner’s forces were well above them in strength. “Ser Harry, what would your military advice be under these circumstances?”

Strickland nodded. “I have to agree with both your Hand and the admiral,” he answered. “Everything seems to indicate that the Dragon Army’s attention is in the North rather than with us at the moment. We don’t have any idea what they are facing up there with this Army of the Dead, or how much of a threat they would be either to them or to us. We might not even know that until either of them reach the Crownlands. Until we have a better idea of that, there’s no point in trying to go on the offense against Daenerys.”

“Let the dead wear out the Dragon Bitch’s army. That might make sense,” Cersei said, giving him a cautious nod. “What would you have us do instead?”

“Secure our provisions and see what we can do to boost our forces,” Strickland said, getting more confident in his assessment. “We have to do anything we can to get more food supplies here, especially with winter apparently on the way. We need to send men out to the Reach and the Riverlands, especially, and maybe the Stormlands for those provisions, anything they can secure.

“As for building our forces… we have 10,000 bannermen attempting to hold onto at least the Crownlands and four kingdoms at once,” Strickland continued. “If the Dragon Army attacked any one of those areas, our forces would not be able to hold them. Would it not make sense to take whatever of those forces we can and send them to King’s Landing to bolster our fighting men here? We would leave just enough to keep the peace among the smallfolk, maybe a couple thousand; there is no way we could send enough men out to those kingdoms to hold them properly.”

Cersei sighed at both the implications of Strickland’s advice and their underlying logic. “It galls me to have to sacrifice any portion of my kingdom to the ravages of foreign invaders,” she said, eyes boring in on the Golden Company’s leader. “However, our ability to hold the capital against any attack has to be the higher priority. Go and send word to our garrisons in the Westerlands, the Riverlands, the Stormlands, and the Reach to leave all but enough soldiers to keep the smallfolk from rioting, but send the rest back to the capital. Also, have them bring or acquire any food or provisions that they can bring along.”

“Since the capture of the Sand woman, there have been no indications that Dorne is making any move to send forces to the aid of the Targaryen,” Qyburn added. “While there are some of the younger Sand Snakes who still live, I am unsure how much influence they now have in Dorne and Sunspear. They of course would not want to hear from us, but perhaps there are some Dornish nobles who might be willing to send their bannermen to our aid.”

“You have some of those nobles in mind?” Cersei asked, and Qyburn nodded in response. “Get word to them that we would be grateful for their support, if they do send it. Also, best get word to Lord Wylliam Trant that Storm’s End is his if he can bring the Stormlands to our aid.”

“Is there anything else?” Cersei said, turning to the rest of her rag-tag Small Council. “Very well, then.” The members of the Small Council took that as their cue to leave, all except for Euron and The Mountain, the latter of which almost never left her side nowadays except when she laid down to bed.

“So, my betrothed, what shall the remainder of the day bring us?” Euron said, arms spread wide over the map of Westeros and grinning as he strode to her. Cersei steeled herself for his embrace, but he stopped right in front of her, the heels of his boots on top of the symbol for King’s Landing. “Perhaps I could join you for dinner this eve?”

She plastered on the most sincere of her insincere grins as she regarded whom she considered to be a ridiculous pirate. “I would enjoy the company, darling, but my stomach has been uncertain this day. I would not force you to not eat well for my sake.”

“A fair point, Your Grace,” Euron said, accompanying it with an exaggerated bow. “Perhaps I could see you after dinner. We could get in a few games of cyvasse, and settle in for the evening…”

“Very well.” She was well-versed in keeping her loathing to herself after years of dealing with her late husband and her father, and doing the same for a person far less emotionally aware than they had been, like Euron was.

“Excellent. Beloved, I wanted to just ask one more time whether it was advisable to put off our wedding until after the Targaryen was defeated…”

“There’s simply not enough time for such a ceremony at the moment, even with our enemies seemingly away from our gates,” Cersei explained in the mildest manner possible. “Besides, with provisions as tight as they are, I want to make sure there will be no excessive demands on them until our fight has been won.”

“My concern is not for a crown, Your Grace, but the status of our child,” Euron said, continuing to project good cheer. “I want to make sure he is trueborn when he comes into the world.”

“I appreciate your concern greatly, My Lord,” Cersei replied. “However, one of the advantages of the throne is the ability to overcome such things that inconvenience lesser people. If the babe is to come before the end of this war, I have but to declare him a trueborn child with the stroke of a pen, and the matter is settled.”

Euron’s bow seemed even lower this time – _I guess I got it through his thick skull for once,_ Cersei thought. “Another fair point, Your Grace. I will check in with my crews and our harbor sentries before dinner and the evening in your company.”

“You have concerns that things will not be well?” Cersei said, eyebrow raised.

“None whatsoever,” Euron replied. “My scouts have kept an eye on the bay and Dragonstone for weeks. No signs of the dragon’s fleet headed toward us, no buildup of forces on Dragonstone. All will be quiet as it has been, I would wager.”

“Glad to hear of it,” Cersei said with the tiniest of smiles. “Well, I will hold you from your duties no longer, darling. I shall see you after supper, then.”

“Indeed you shall,” he replied in kind. “Indeed you shall.” With a last flourishing turn on his heels, Euron was off to his business.

Cersei considered what was before her that evening. She rated the experience of Euron in her bed, from a physical pleasure standpoint alone, to be somewhere between her brother’s treasured caresses and Robert’s at times indifferent and drunken pawings. Of course, she thought the Ironborn admiral way below her in terms of cunning and grace, so _that_ was another issue she had with him.

The other issue she had, of course, was that her preferred lover was not there. Jaime, sweet and loving as ever despite the years and the hand that was now gold. His leaving for the North had so stunned her that even now she could barely get her head around his actions. _Father said I was the stupid one,_ she thought. _What would he say of Jaime’s actions? Despite the years and all of his misdeeds, somehow Jaime still believes there is a thing called honor, that there is still some value in a knight’s vow. Even as many times as he fell short of it, he still has faith. Unbelievable. But women aren’t that naïve._

The only hope that she clung on to was that Jaime’s decision was aimed at fighting against the dead, to keep his vow to the Dragon Bitch, rather than a betrayal of her. Down deep in her soul, she hoped that once all had been decided up North, or the dead had killed everyone but him, that he would come back to her. She pictured him doing in Euron, and either ruling by her side after defeating the usurpers or fleeing to Essos if the dead overwhelmed Westeros.

She did care about the crown, she did care about winning the game of thrones after all those who’d abused her and discounted her were long gone and dead. But if she had to choose between the throne and Jaime, especially if they had their baby, then she might just choose Jaime. At least, that’s what she thought at the moment. _Fuck everyone who isn’t us. No truer words were spoken._

One of her handmaidens, a young dark-haired girl of five and ten from somewhere in the Stormlands approached her after all but the Mountain were gone. “Your Grace?” she asked. “Will you be taking your supper tonight in your chambers?”

Cersei raised her arm wordlessly, and the Mountain stepped forward to take in and assist her out of the chair. She smoothed any wrinkles in her crimson and gold dress before addressing her handmaiden. “Yes, I will. Oh, and Alyssa? Can you make sure that you double the amount of the incense pots in my chambers? I fear that the stench from Flea Bottom is only getting worse by the day.”

The girl bowed deeply, her eyes on the floor. “Absolutely, Your Grace. I’ll see to it right now.”

_Thank the Gods for small comforts,_ Cersei thought as she left the map courtyard, with the Mountain flanking her. _I’m going to have enough to cope with feeding Euron’s ego this evening without having my nostrils and guts in revolt as well._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those of you in the know about ASOIAF lore and facts, let me know if my numbers on the combatants are all wrong. I think they're pretty solid. [EDIT: 4.2.2020 - Made some adjustments to the troop numbers.]
> 
> Also, let me know how I handled Cersei. I have to admit, of all the ASOIAF characters I'm the least alike, Cersei would probably be near the top of that list, at least.
> 
> I was going to preview what was coming next, but I'm not sure how much everyone loves/hates spoilers, or how that's defined here. Feel free to enlighten me in the comments.


	17. A Riot in The Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the King of Rock and Salt distracted, the man once known as Reek springs a surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usually you don't get one chapter right after the other... but I worked fast this week. Enjoy.

17.

**Yara**

She was happy for the quiet, at least. She was happy for the boredom she felt, even. The alternative was something best not to think about.

The woman who claimed to be the rightful Queen of the Iron Islands was in a predicament that seemed to mock that very claim. For the past few weeks, she had been a prisoner of her uncle on his flagship, _The Silence. _One of the quirks of her uncle was that she’d had most of the tongues of that crew removed to ensure that they could more easily sneak up on unsuspecting ships, and that they could more easily hear those sneaking up on them. She was glad that she hadn’t had her tongue removed by her uncle. She was rather fond of speaking, and its other uses…

To be fair, she considered her position to be quite fortunate than what it could be. Instead of being lashed to a mast exposed to the ever cooling weather of Blackwater Bay, she was chained up to a beam in the captain’s quarters in the stern, with windows letting in a good amount of light during the day. Her hands were chained behind her, but the chains were long enough that her hands weren’t forced to stay above her shoulders, and her legs were unfettered. Her jacket, shirt, and breeches were looking more ragged than before, but at least she wasn’t naked - not that she had a concern about her propriety, but wanted to keep somewhat warm the cooler it got outside. It would be nice if she could have gotten her boots back, however…

Even the amount of punishment she’d taken wasn’t much to write home about. Oh, there had been a pounding in the first couple of days she was on board, which resulted in a mass of facial bruises, eyes nearly swollen shut, and what felt like a cracked cheekbone, joining the bruises all over her torso, arms, and legs. However, she hadn’t has so much as a slap for several days, and she felt confident that if she’d had access to a mirror, she would see those bruises fading. She hadn’t had a visit from Euron for an entire week. Neither her uncle or any of his crew had had their way with her, with the exception of some pawing and fondling from those who’d brought her food. That hadn’t happened for a few days, either, and she was actually starting to miss any sort of attention, even the imposing type. _Shame what happened to the Sand woman,_ she thought to herself. _That could have wound up being an enjoyable diversion from all this fighting._

It was as the sun’s light retreated over the walls of King’s Landing and down the waters of the Blackwater Rush that Yara realized that Euron was saving her for something. _I’m a dessert cake for him, something not to eat until the very end of a feast_, she thought. _He wants to wait until the right time to take his enjoyment at my pain. Maybe when he believes he and Cersei have won, or maybe if Theon tries to actually rescue me. Anything else would just be too… boring for my uncle._

However, she began to notice the low-lying clouds that glided over the Red Keep, over the city walls, and then began to spread over the entire bay, just adding the lightest dusting of flurries over the waters.

She shivered in anticipation of the cold – there would be no thought of bringing her a blanket to keep the chill away, they brought her whatever leftover fish stew from the galley as an afterthought. However, there was another shiver traveling down her spine as she realized what the clouds and flurries would mean for the ability of any of her uncle’s lookouts to see anything.

_The moon – it’s a new moon tonight,_ she remembered – she’d had plenty of time to observe the weather patterns, rise and fall of the tides, and the waxing and waning of the moon. _With a new moon out, these clouds overhead, and the flurries falling… if someone was going to sneak up on my uncle, on this Iron Fleet, tonight would be the best night to do it…_

_Do you see it coming, Euron? Or are you so besotted with the idea of sitting on an Iron Throne that you forget how to be an Ironborn? My Queen, might you be able to swoop down from the skies and affect my rescue? Or, is this what you were waiting for, Brother? Are you still Ironborn, or are you as broken as you were when I saw you last?_

#

**Theon**

He made sure to shield his spyglass from the last brightness of the sun to stop any reflection from reaching the far shore. Even though his boat was hidden just behind the last southern bend before entering Blackwater Bay proper, he wanted to ensure that no sign of them could be visible to even the most watchful pickets on the other side.

“Admiral, look over the Red Keep,” said Roark, one of his captains, a stringy, balding man of about forty, called out. “Clouds and snow showers forming over the bay.”

“The same night as the new moon rises over Westeros,” Theon said, grinning for the first time in his recent memory. “It’ll be tonight or not at all.”

“All the ships will go?” Roark said.

“Only the smaller longboats, even though they’ll be filled with our people,” Theon said. “Make sure to have the oars muffled, each and every one. Make sure everyone has plenty of arrows and that everyone has the boring tools. We’re only getting one shot at this.”

“When do we leave?”

Theon eyeballed the dying rays retreating over the western horizon. “The minute there’s no daylight coming from there, we start rowing.”

“Lord Theon, at the rate that the men row, we won’t get to those ships until early morning,” said another one of his captains, a younger, dark-haired man named Caemon. “They’ll be ready to fall into their hammocks rather than storm some ships, surely.”

“Surely they on the other side will be in the same boat,” Theon said. _“Plus,_ they won’t be expecting visitors, and _plus,_ they’ll hardly be able to see in front of their faces. We’ll have the advantage.”

“Very well, My Lord,” Caemon said.

#

Night had made itself well at home by the time the flurries had started to pick up. There were four sentries in _The Silence_ watching the waves for anything unusual. Half of those were asleep, which matched the situations on the other ships of the fleet. The others were fighting that sleep and trying to stare into the sleet and snow around them to find something they weren’t expecting to see.

The sentries in the crow’s nest and on the stern were the ones fast asleep, while those amidships on the port and starboard sides still were awake. First, the sentry on the port side was yanked overboard by a pair of black-clad hands and a rope thrown over him. Then, when the starboard-side sentry turned to see what had happened, hands grabbed him from behind and the rope thrown around him. The ropes, which were attached to the ship, kept the men from falling into the bay and making a splash. Once they were at the ends of their ropes, Theon’s Ironborn slashed their throats at leisure. Then, it was simply a matter of sneaking up to the sleeping sentries and slashing their throats without a peep.

Once they were disposed of, Theon and the rest of his Ironborn clambered up ropes onto the top deck. “Those with the boring tools, get below decks and get to work,” he whispered. “Cut the anchor and get us moving out into the bay, and secure the crew.”

Much of the crew of _The Silence_ was on shore in the King’s Landing barracks, so there were only a few men to either dispatch or take with them, depending on the strength of their loyalties to Euron. There wasn’t even anyone guarding the door to Euron’s cabin, so Theon simply collected the ring of keys from a hook next to the door and unlocked it.

He was surprised to find his sister sitting wide awake, her eyes widening in recognition as he hurried into the room. Without a word, Theon went behind Yara and, after some fumbling, managed to find the keys that would unlock her shackles. As she stood up, Theon said, “Yara…”

He was cut off by Yara, without a word, rearing back and head butting him just on his left eyebrow. Head stinging, he went down with a _thump-thump _as he began to feel blood flowing down his left cheek.

Theon looked up at the scowling Queen of the Iron Islands, hands on both hips and completely disregarding the scalp laceration that she’d gotten from the head butt. Finally, her expression unchanged, she reached down with an outstretched hand. “At least you picked the right time to try this.”

Theon took her hand and let her haul him to his feet. “It’s good to see you,” he said with a smile.

Yara didn’t return that smile, but did reply, “You, too. Come on, then.”

#

**Yara**

Yara and Theon got up on deck as his men continued to make their way to the other large ships and taking their sentries by surprise, the lack of a clear moon and the still-falling flurries masking their actions. Once Yara took a quick glance at their work, she turned to Theon with a stare that he took correctly as _talk to me._

“Since we don’t have enough men or ships to fight Euron, we’re stealing instead,” Theon said. “All of our men are going to all of the big ships. There’s enough of us that we can take maybe 10 of the big ships with us.”

“What’s happening to the rest?”

“We’re cutting loose their anchor lines, letting them drifting off into the bay, and then sinking them,” he explained. “They’re already boring holes in the hull of this ship; it’s only a matter of time before it sinks as well. We’re lucky they didn’t have as many men on the ships as I expected, so it’s actually going better than I hoped.”

Yara considered his words as she hauled one of the dead sentries back onto the deck and relieved him of his boots. After all of the unpleasantness she’d gone through and all of the hassles she’d had with her brother, she realized she had wanted to find fault with his plan, and in her frustration realized there were no obvious ones, given the circumstances. _Still…_ “So, you’re just leaving his smaller ships alone, then?”

“Not enough time and not enough men,” Theon explained. “This way, we can cause the maximum amount of damage to his fleet with minimal to no loss for us. And, freeing you, of course.”

Yara fixed him with a long look. _Well, Brother, at least you’re thinking like an Ironborn rather than fooling yourself into thinking you’re a land-fighter._ “It feels like Uncle’s ship is taking on water, then,” she said. “Best we get onto one of the boats, right?”

“Best that we do,” Theon said, pointing the way to the rope ladders.

#

**Theon**

Two days and a night after the raid, Theon rejoiced to see the port of Dragonstone in his spyglass.

The Raid on Blackwater Bay had turned out far beyond his expectations. In addition to Yara’s rescue, the Ironborn under their command had seized a dozen of the largest ships in Euron’s fleet and made off with them as easily as a Dothraki stealing horses from their enemies. There were still a few hundred ships anchored out in the bay, but they were all smaller longships or similar craft. All of Euron’s larger vessels not in the possession of Yara were now at the bottom of the bay, well away from the port of King’s Landing. They had even managed to take with them a few dozen Ironborn who had either served previously with Yara and Theon or who were willing to do so now. And, they had lost not a single life and only a few rowboats that they had to leave behind.

“Looks like they’re setting out the welcoming party for us,” Yara said as she approached him from behind. Now cleaned up and dressed in something resembling clothing fit for an Ironborn queen – long black leather coat, trousers and boots, and a leather tunic with the Kraken symbol of her house splashed across it.

“Apparently so, thank the Drowned God,” Theon said. The ships standing picket duty around the western approaches of Dragonstone, emblazoned with red three-headed dragons of somewhat questionable artistic talent, made way for the Ironborn ships. “It appears they see our signal.”

Yara looked up at where he was pointing. On the top of the mainmast was a crimson pennant with an image of a three-headed dragon in black. “Good thinking,” she begrudgingly admitted.

#

Theon and Yara disembarked from their vessel to the Dragonstone docks to find Ser Davos Seaworth waiting for them. “Queen Yara, Lord Theon, it’s good to have you back to Dragonstone. Your plan worked out then, apparently, my lord?”

“Better than expected, actually,” Theon said, only the tiniest hint of his pre-Reek cockiness poking through. “Uh, Ser Davos, what are you doing at Dragonstone? Is Jon back here?”

Davos shook his head. “No, he and the queen are at Winterfell now. With the two of you… unavailable, they asked me to serve as their Master of Sail.”

“All right, we understand that, but… wait, what do you mean, _their_ Master of Sail?” Yara said, irritation turning to puzzlement.

Davos looked between the brother and sister, took a deep breath, and sighed as he looked down at the dock planks for a moment. “Ah, right.” He looked up again. “Both of you missed out on some more recent developments,” he said, gesturing for them to follow him. “Best I catch you up on them.”

#

“Rhaegar Targaryen’s secret son. Can’t fucking believe it,” Yara said after Davos had finished his explanation.

“I can,” said Theon almost in a whisper. “Family was the only thing Fa… Lord Stark treasured more than or as much as his honor. Makes sense he would be willing to put up with all of it to protect Jon.”

There was silence in the great map room of Dragonstone for a few moments as the three of them contemplated their own thoughts. Finally, Yara spoke up. “Is the queen sticking to our agreement to allow the Iron Islands their independence?”

“The Queen will ask you to serve as her client kingdom, to honor her alliances, come to the aid of Westeros if needed, and forgo any raiding or land claims in Westeros other than the Iron Islands,” Davos said. “Otherwise, you will be free to rule your kingdom as you and the Ironborn see fit.”

Theon saw her sister mentally trying to keep calm at the idea that the Dragon Queen would restrict her from doing anything, hands grasping the armrests of her chair and Yara not meeting Davos’ eyes.

Finally, she rose from her seat and gave Davos a nod. “I can live with that,” she said. She turned to Theon. “If you’ll let me borrow our uncle’s ships and their crews, I’ll make my way to Pyke. Even a dozen main battle ships will be enough to seize the Iron Islands while Euron is away. I’ll round Dorne to get there – there won’t be any ships to stop me.”

“I’ll need to head North, then,” Theon said. “If Jon and his family are defending Winterfell from the dead, I want to be there. I need to make right what I did wrong with Robb and all of them.”

“Best you stay here and help out with Ser Davos, Theon,” Yara said, her voice gentle rather than commanding. “You’ll help him make sure Euron doesn’t try to attack Dragonstone or Cersei and him try to escape.”

“But Jon needs me up there! Fuck, I need to be up there,” Theon pleaded, his eyes sharing a desperate look with his sister.

He was surprised to feel Davos’ hand on his shoulder. “I understand how you’d want to help the lad, seeing as you were raised with him,” Davos said. “But it wouldn’t do any good for you to go now. The Army of the Dead is already past the wall and on the way to Winterfell. By the time you sailed to White Harbor and made your way overland to them, whatever fighting there was to be would already have happened.”

“Bugger,” Theon said in defeat, sighing and shaking his head.

“If anyone’s going to be able to defeat an army of dead men, it’s going to be those two with an army of hard men from the North and Essos, all armed to the teeth with dragonglass, and two dragons besides,” Davos continued. “He’ll need you to be ready when the time comes to move on King’s Landing and you’ll need to either get their soldiers there or keep Cersei from escaping. _That’s_ the best way you can help him now.”

Theon turned to Davos and nodded. “All right.” He faced his sister again. “I’ll keep our uncle bottled up in Blackwater Bay for now. You go and claim your Salt Throne. Let them know what we did – there’s no way he’ll return to Pyke after having that happen to him.”

“He’ll want to get revenge for his mistake, one way or another,” Yara said, eyeing Theon warily. “Be on the watch for it.”

“I will.”

She reached over and wrapped him up in a hug. “No matter what becomes of us, Brother,” she said, “I’m glad I could see you come back to yourself.”

The two smiled at each other as they finally drew apart. “What is dead…” Theon began.

“…will never die,” Yara repeated along with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usually I get through one of these chapters confident that I did better than the 2Ds. With this chapter... maybe it was a little better. But, we see Theon being hella sneaky and Yara starting to get her swagger back as always, so hopefully it's a good read.
> 
> It's not much of a spoiler to say that we're going back to the North next chapter to see what's cooking up there, which include preparations for the upcoming Battle of the Long Night. Hope you keep reading, and talk back to me in the comments; I'm likely to chat right back.


	18. Best Defense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life goes on for the residents and guests of Winterfell as The Army of the Living prepares for The Army of the Dead. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some might be enjoying the holiday, but for me it just gives me more time to write, which is my way of relaxing. 
> 
> This wound up being a bit bigger than I anticipated, so I hope you enjoy it. More strategizing, people relating to each other, romance and fluff to come in the next few chapters. Please feel free to comment and I plan to answer back. Thanks, everyone. [EDIT: 4.2.2020 - Made some adjustments to the troop numbers.]

18.

**Jon**

For the first time since he’d gotten back to Winterfell, he had a better than forlorn hope that he wasn’t going to get everyone that followed him and Dany killed.

It was still early in the morning as Jon began a circuit around the outer wall of Winterfell that started and ended with him facing north. Since their arrival, the men and women of what Jon and Dany, only half-jokingly, titled the Army of the Living, had managed to construct a network of three lines of spiked wooden barricades circling around not only Winterfell, but fully encompassing the winter town, as well as the armed camps of Dothraki, Unsullied, and northerners. Small “gate” openings had been cut into the sections to allow men and wagons to pass through, but these could be easily closed up. As Ser Jorah had mentioned, the barricades would trap any wights from easily climbing over them and could also be lit on fire to create an additional hazard. Jon was glad those were up and ready. _ Even if it slows them down, it might be the difference between holding firm and getting overwhelmed, _ he thought.

As he proceeded down along the western outer wall, Jon saw where the workers had gotten the raw material for the logs and limbs used for the barricades. Under the direction of Ser Joren Snow, men had harvested darkwoods and pines from the eastern edge of the Wolfswood to turn into protective barricades. The advantage of harvesting the trees there was that it pushed the tree line further back from the outermost barricades, lessening a surprise attack from the west. However, Ser Joren warned that the best way to stop an attack from coming through there might be to set that section of the forest alight and burn them out.

“It’d be a damned waste of good trees, to be honest,” the woodsman knight had said, shaking his head at the time, “but if the choice is between us living and us dying, we might need to break the torches out.”

Ser Joren had offered to have some of the trees prepared to be lit in case of an attack so his men could set them off before they retreated, but Jon had told him to wait on that. He had to make a decision on that one way or another, and he was reluctantly leaning towards Ser Joren’s suggestion.

As he went to the south wall, he saw the catapults being prepared both within and outside the castle. There were eight of modest size inside the castle walls, ready to launch flaming missiles at attackers on any side – they’d been designed by Lord Tyrion to be easily rotated on wheeled carriages so they could face in any direction. There were four more, larger catapults on the other side of the south wall, located in open areas of the winter town. Being south of the castle, these were considered less likely to be under attack by the dead from that direction, and they still had the protection of the three lines of barricades.

Even high above on the wall, he could feel the heat from the Winterfell forges as they continued to produce dragonglass spears, axes, arrows, daggers, and arahks, in addition to miscellaneous pieces of steel armor in sizes suitable for men and women. Jon hardly saw the man around and about, but he knew Gendry was in the middle of things, directing the new workers to get the finished weapons out of the shop, start assembling others, or, more often than not, grabbing a hammer and getting into the action himself. Jon also saw, as he looked down at the outside of Winterfell’s walls, that Grey Worm’s suggestion about sticking dragonglass there had come into being. Jagged shards now dotted the walls, most notably on the outside of the uppermost battlements.

As he made his way to the northeast corner of the walls, he saw a collection of torch lights still visible in the darkness of the near dawn from the long-abandoned holdfast in that direction. Some of the House Karstark bannermen had volunteered to man that section and give early warning if an attack came from their direction. However, he’d told Lady Karstark that they should not stay there if they believed they would be overwhelmed or unsafe, but that they should run for the safety of the barricades at the first opportunity.

Finally, he got back to the northern wall. Some of Lord Howland’s crannogmen were out in that direction, out of sight, finding sentry positions in the woods farther away from Winterfell. He worried about the old warrior and his fellow men being left out on their own out there, so he’d insisted they bring horses with them in case a fast retreat was needed. Howland insisted his boys would be OK, but Jon didn’t want another Reed dying for his family if he could help it.

“I awoke this morning and found my bed to be slightly colder than when I fell asleep,” he heard behind him. “That’s when I realized the one that kept it warm wasn’t there.”

Jon smiled without turning around, leaning on the battlements with his arms. “Apologies, dear wife, but I had rounds to make. We are due to have guests and I want to make sure our welcome is appropriate.”

“Understood, dear husband,” Dany said as she wrapped her arms around his waist. “I probably have some pressing duties to sort out myself. I’m just looking forward to the time when such duties aren’t… _ as _ pressing.”

“Me too.” Jon turned to his left and gathered her under his arm. With almost the slightest of amusement, he saw that she’d chosen to wear a white woolen cloak over her typical white or black long-sleeved dress and coat, with its hood put over her head. “I thought dragons were able to make their own heat,” he teased, tugging on the top of her hood.

“True, but like my dragon children, we prefer it when it’s warm. Maybe you need to have some wolf’s blood to stand it better.” She leaned her head against his chest. “So, what do you see?”

He took a deep breath before answering. “We _ might _ have a chance at surviving this. It’s slim, but we might have it, and it will take everything we have. Our defenses are about as strong as we can make them, but we could use more men. Thankfully, all of those not able to fight around here have gone to White Harbor and then to Dragonstone. There might have been some up north of us, but I don’t think they’ll get away from the dead now.”

“Any prospect of more fighters?”

“Bran has been keeping watch in all directions,” Jon answered. “The additional men from the Vale brings their contingent up to 15,000. Bran said the survivors of the Night’s Watch, Tormund’s Freefolk detachment, and the House Umber bannermen should be here in two, three days, and all of them are just under 1,000. I just wish there were more…”

“Like you often say, we’ll make do with what we have,” Dany said.

“There’s enough defenses, enough weapons for all, and those here are getting enough training, but I want to be sure.” He hung his head. “There might be some other people still north of us… but likely they’ve been lost to the dead at this point.

“I know what it’s like having people die under my command,” he continued. “I just want to make sure that we win in the end, and that I don’t get more people killed than need to be. I already have enough of that on my conscience for a lifetime.”

They were quiet for a moment, thinking of all of those who’d died under their command over the years. Finally, Dany said, “Does Bran know when the dead will be here?”

“He’s thinking a week at the rate they’re moving, but it’s hard to tell,” Jon replied.

Dany nodded. “Well, nothing to be done about that for now.” She gave his waist a squeeze. “We can do something about taking care of you. Let’s go down, break our fast, and then we can start sorting out what else we can do afterward.”

Jon lifted her hood off her head and then tipped her chin up so her eyes met his. “I’m starting to seriously question how I did all of this commanding without having you around,” he said, punctuating it with a kiss to her lips.

“You probably did just fine, but you overbrooded,” she said. “Besides, we lead together, sharing the burden. I admit I feel much better about ruling with someone to share it with.”

“All right, then let’s share the burden of breakfast, then,” Jon said, laughing.

#

**Arya**

“What did the Red Woman really want you for?” she asked.

It was just before dawn in Gendry’s room just off the forge. She and he were seated together, on his bunk, sharing some goats-milk cheese from some local goats and some jerked beef for breakfast.

Gendry hesitated and set down his plate in his lap. “Like I said, she took me to Dragonstone, to meet with Lord Stannis… my uncle, I guess. She told him Robert was my father, and he said I had the look to me. So, he had them find me a room.”

“What happened next?”

Gendry stared off into the distance. “She came to me in the room, gave me some wine. Then, she took off her clothes, then mine, then she laid me down on the bed there. We started… but before I knew what was going on, she’d tied me up so I couldn’t get away and put leeches on me, my chest, my… cock.” He shuddered at the memory, and he felt Arya tightening her grip on his shoulders. “She used it in some sort of blood sacrifice for Stannis, but it wasn’t enough for them, they were going to kill me… until Davos snuck me out of Dragonstone and I rowed back to King’s Landing.”

“Gods, I’m so sorry,” Arya finally said.

He turned to her. “It was my fault, I should have realized there was a trick in the whole thing…”

“That was _ not _ your fault,” Arya hissed at him, grey eyes ablaze. “She took advantage of you and hurt you, and later she convinced Stannis to sacrifice his own daughter, your cousin. The bitch had better stay out of the North or I’ll execute her for my brother and I won’t be quick about it at all. Don’t worry, nothing like that will ever happen to you again. You’re pack to me, just like with Sansa and my brothers.”

Gendry turned to her as he realized what she’d just said, what those words meant to her. “I’m part of your pack?”

“Absolutely,” she responded.

“How does that work?” Gendry said, smiling. “Is there some sort of initiation ceremony or something?”

Arya stared at him for a moment, then doubled over laughing so much she had to set aside the plate of food on her lap. “What is it?” Gendry asked her.

“Oh, no, sorry, that just reminded me of something,” she said, getting up from the cot and slowly pacing in front of it. “When I was a child, I remember Father talking to us about wolf packs and how they related to each other, how the wolves in the pack worked with each other. He told us that when a new wolf joined the pack, whether it was born or whether it joined it as an adult, the alpha male of the pack would pee on them to mark them with the pack’s scent. Soon after that, Rickon was born and all of us were seeing him for the first time, and I remember asking Father whether he or Mother would have to pee on Rickon to welcome him into the family.” She cackled at the memory of the whole scene, hugging herself as she stopped and stood in front of Gendry, and even he joined in. “Mother was appalled and didn’t say a word to me all that day, but Father and the rest of them giggled for days afterward.” Her face fell suddenly, realizing that half of the people in her memory were dead. “I miss all of them so much, Gendry. I really do.”

“Of course you do.” He set aside his plate, stood up, and gathered her into a hug, kissing her on the top of her head. “Of course you do.”

She looked up at him with a quizzical expression. “So, was that the first time for you?”

He stared down at her in disbelief. “Yuh, and hopefully the last; I don’t recommend having leeches stuck to your cock to anyone…”

“I mean your first time with a woman,” Arya corrected him gently.

He slowly disentangled himself from her embrace. “Yes, it was. Does that upset you?

She thought for a moment, trying to see if she had any upset feelings about the news, and surprised that she could sense none. “It’s like you said, we were apart and didn’t know if the other was alive or dead,” she finally said. “Everyone has a past, and like I said, she tricked you.”

“Yeah. It was a nightmare, thou…”

“Have there been any others since then?” _ It would make sense. He’s handsome enough, in his bull way, and his father apparently slept through half of the young women of Westeros in his day… _

“What? No, no, I didn’t, not really. Why’re you asking?”

Jaquen had taught her how to use the Game of Faces to lie, but now she used it to examine Gendry. She studied every nuance of his expression, how his eyes kept darting to the side as he talked, how those massive shoulders of his were hunched up and tightened. “I’m just curious. And yes, you did. How many was it? One, two, 12 more?”

“Why’d yo…” Gendry caught himself, shook his head, and locked eyes with Arya. “There were two other women… other than the Red Woman. It’s not like I did everything with all of them – I didn’t want to leave some woman with a bastard to raise. I know what that’s like.”

She heard the truth in both his words and his face. “I know you do…”

“Why’d you ask, anyways?” Gendry whispered to her as he came close to her again.

_ Gods, why _ did _ I ask? _ She looked at him as she took hold of his hands with her own. They seemed almost twice the size of hers. Despite their roughness and the small cut and burn scars from years of hard work, she marveled at their dexterity and how soft his touch was on her hands. She remembered how they felt before when he’d touched her face or rubbed her back when they had gone to sleep together. _ What would it feel like if he touched her someplace else… _

She shook her head to clear it, and then looked up at Gendry as he stared at her, breathing in deeper than normally, mouth hanging open as he looked over her entire body. “I… I’m sorry, I was just curious,” she stammered out. “You don’t have to tell me details. I’m sorry…”

“S’all right,” Gendry said. “If you feel comfortable talking with me about anything, I should be the same with you, right?”

She gave his hands another squeeze before letting go of them. “You told me you had a surprise for me before I left, right?”

Gendry’s eyes lit up with recognition at what he meant by that. “Oh, yeah, right here.” He went to the workbench in his room and lifted a canvas covering from one section.

He lifted up what was underneath in both hands and then turned to her. “Just as you ordered.” The staff was nearly her height, with thick dragonglass blades just shorter than the length of her hands. After he laid it into her outstretched hands, she twirled it around in circles, getting a feel for the weight and balance of the staff. She pointed to a metal catch in the center of the staff. “This is it?” she said. Gendry nodded.

She pushed the metal catch and twisted, and the staff immediately separated into two short, stabbing spears. Arya spun them around in each hand simultaneously, in wide arcs, imagining how they might work in combat. In one swift motion, she brought the two halves together and joined them again with a _ click-click. _ “Oh, I _ do _ like this,” she said, grinning. “Thank you.”

“I’m willing to arm you any time,” Gendry said as he grinned back.

“Armed. Shit,” she said, thinking of something. She opened the door and peered out into the courtyard. “Sorry, I have to get going,” she said. “You have a way of carrying this on my back that might be convenient?”

“Already rigging something up,” he said, pointing to his bench. “Should have it ready by tonight.”

“Great.” She went out to the forge area, set down her staff, and stopped by a pile of dagger-sized dragonglass blades and picked one up to inspect it. “Is there any chance I can have a half dozen of these too?”

“Half dozen?” he said incredulously. “What do you need those fo…?”

There was a _ thunk _ as one of the blades burrowed itself into one of the support beams of the forge opposite her and Gendry. Picking up two others without a word, she took first one and then the other in her left hand, and with a tricky flick of the wrist buried them next to the first one. She turned to him with a self-satisfied grin. “They might be useful in a pinch.”

Ever so slowly, Gendry nodded, more than a little in awe of what he’d seen, apparently. “Go on with you,” he sighed. “You coming back tonight?”

“You know it,” she insisted. She went to him and flung her arms around his neck. The kiss was warmer, longer than the first few ones they’d shared. _ He doesn’t seem as nervous as the first time we did this,_ she thought. “Thanks again.”

“See you.” She stuffed the dragonglass blades inside her jacket and grabbed her staff before bounding out into the courtyard.

#

**Daenerys**

There were times when she wanted to attract people’s attention, especially as a queen and a leader of people. This was not one of those times.

She was glad that she was wearing her cloak as she walked out into the godswood. Being white, it was not exactly anonymous, but with her hood down and over her silver tresses, she was at least able to disguise her identity if nothing else.

The godswood was fully vacant at that time of the morning. Most of the smallfolk and the handful of highborn doing their weapons training were still breaking their fast, and they would be on the open grounds just east of the castle. Daenerys didn’t want to distract people with her presence, so she decided to conduct the business of the morning in the godswood. However, she didn’t see who she was going to meet there in one of the clearings further toward the walls…

“Apologies, Your Grace, I was a few minutes late – had to put some other weapons up for safe keeping,” Arya said, bounding into the clearing. She carried a canvas sack on her back as she approached her.

“It’s no trouble. I admit that I just got here myself,” the queen replied.

“Ok, then,” Arya said, setting the bag down. “Ready to get started?”

“Yes.” As Arya rummaged through the bag, Daenerys lifted the hood off her head, untied her cloak, and set it down on an old fallen tree trunk. In preparation for her… _ appointment _ with Arya, she had dressed as the Khalessi of her youth, with a thick cotton long-sleeved shirt under a dyed leather riding vest, alongside flexible brown leather riding breeches and boots well suited for keeping feet in Dothraki stirrups. As she’d returned to their chambers to dress, Jon had joked that she needed to wear the outfit again that evening when they were alone. She had a feeling it would be a pleasant surprise for him if she really did. _ I should be mindful of all my new husband’s… preferences in the bedroom, _ she thought.

Arya withdrew two blunted swords from the canvas bag. One was small and lean, much like Needle, and she kept that for herself while keeping the real Needle sheathed. The second one was about the same length, but curved and thicker around that curve, in the style of an Essosi scimitar. This blade she handed, hilt-first, to the queen. With a nod, the two women began their sparring session.

For Daenerys, the lessons with her goodsister over the past couple weeks had been a long-overdue education for her. Drogo, of course, had no interest in her ability to defend herself, or even the purpose of such a thing, like the ability to breathe water for someone who spent their entire lives on land. Daario always had faith that if it came down to it, he would be able to protect her, and her scaled children had been her main protection when it came down to combat in the past.

However, her experience Beyond the Wall had proven to her that the dead did not have any fear of her dragons or anything else, and they put no stock in the idea of noncombatants. If she wanted to ensure that she survived the clash with the dead, she had to make sure her children were not the only defense against those who wished to harm her. The fact that Jon had immediately agreed with Arya’s suggestion that she train with her affirmed her choice in a political and personal partner.

The two women circled each other, the only sounds being the _ clang _ of parrying swords, the _ thud _of Arya’s practice sword sneaking through the queen’s guard and smacking into an exposed arm, leg, or side, and Arya’s short, abrupt instructions. Arya had told her of her first fighting teacher, the water dancer from Braavos, and his lessons. To Daenerys, Arya was a strict, firm, but quietly encouraging teacher, always demanding and never diplomatic about her faults as a swordswoman but one who made a point to acknowledge her progress and growth.

And even in the short time they’d had together, there had been some growth. Now, Arya’s sword found its mark fewer and fewer times as Daenerys managed to parry the most obvious of attacks. She was able to wield the sword one-handed without getting tired after the first several minutes. And, even though she had yet to develop the water-dancing technique of her goodsister, she no longer looked like she was scared of the sword she wielded.

“You’re making progress, Your Grace,” Arya said as they began to wrap up the training session that lasted about a half-hour.

“It’s Daenerys to you, and it’s going to be a long time before I consider myself to be a swordsman the level of Ser Barristan,” Danerys said. Remembering back to her days in Dragons’ Bay, she added, “By the time I knew him, he was well advanced in age, but as fierce a swordsman as I ever saw. I can only imagine how he must have been in his prime.”

“Don’t disparage yourself, Y… Daenerys. From what I’ve observed, any person can improve their skills, maybe not to a top level, but certainly better than before. Also, even those with skills can continue to learn and improve. Riding with your Dothraki for a few days have given me some insights – I’m pretty good with a bow, but I never thought to shoot one from horseback until starting to ride with them.”

“You’ve made quite an impression on them, and the Freefolk when you sparred with some of their spearwives. I’ve heard the name they’ve started to call you by, as well.”

“The Wild Wolf,” Arya said, rolling her eyes at the idea. “If this keeps up, I’ll start approaching your collection of names.”

“There is another for you? I had not heard.”

That question appeared to wipe away Arya’s good humor. “There are those who’ve named me The Vengeance of the North, for what I did to House Frey,” she said, uncertainty in her voice.

“I do not judge you for that,” Daenerys said. “They took the lives of your mother, brother and goodsister. You did what you did because you knew there would be no justice otherwise under the rule of Cersei. And, you did not harm any of the innocents,” she added, patting the younger and shorter woman on the shoulder. “Most people would not have even cared about that.”

“Thank you. Daenerys… I know you will be busy today, but may I talk with you for just a moment?” Arya said. Looking around to make sure that there was no one listening, she sat down on the tree trunk and patted the spot next to her. As the queen sat down, Arya said, “You have been very generous, not just with Jon, but our whole family to which you now belong and to our people. You’ve always said that I only have to ask for your help or counsel, and it is mine, but until now, I did not think I had specific need of it.”

Daneryes turned to Arya and took her hands in her own and set them on her lap. “Of course, Arya. What do you need?”

Arya locked eyes with her, but her expression was as uncertain as Daenerys imagined hers was the first time she’d picked up her practice sword. “I want to ask you about sex.”

Daenerys’ eyes widened as she tried to consider the request. Based on her limited experiences in the North, and how Jon had been with her, she’d always had the impression that Northerners were far more modest in their sexual habits than those of, say, Dorne or some of the Free Cities. The Freefolk had been an exception to that – the past couple of weeks of close quarters had tempted men and women of the Freefolk and the Dothraki to fraternize with increasing success. She realized that she’d assumed Arya had no such interests since her brother Jon had never said anything of it. However, she remembered Jon telling her of her sister’s bluntness and determination to get what she wanted. It now appeared that she was directing this same attitude toward a different goal. “Arya, are you sure…”

“My mother is dead,” Arya said matter-of-factly. “My sister’s experience with sex was rape, pure and simple, so any questions I ask her would be… not helpful, for either of us. Right now, you’re the one family member I can talk freely about this, especially someone with much more… experience than I’ve had.”

_ Of course there’s no one else, _ Daenerys thought, pondering Arya’s logic. She could feel the nervousness of Arya’s hands, tensed in her own grip, and the lost look she gave her made her seem every bit the five years younger she truly was rather than her stern fencing taskmaster. “What has your experience been?”

“None at all,” Arya responded. “I’ve seen the act done, back when I was working in a brothel in Braavos - not as one of the pillow women, but serving food.” _ How many tales does she have like that? _ Daenerys wondered. “Anyway, seeing as how we might be dead within a week, I’m beginning to wonder if I should try it.”

“Errr…” _ Now _ I’m _ getting nervous. Then again, I was this awkward when my handmaidens were instructing me how to make Drogo happy... _ “Um… is there a… man you wish to try it with?”

“There is, but… I want to keep that to myself, for now,” Arya said.

“All right.”

“No comments about morality or other nonsense?”

“What use is that in these times, Arya? As queen, I find I have to judge people based on many things, but who or whether you sleep with someone is not my concern or interest.”

“I’m glad. I also wanted to ask you about this because…” Arya had to look down and away from Daenerys as the normally pale Stark lady was turning a vivid pink. “Because it seems like you are… _ enjoying _ your time with my brother. Gods, did I say that? I sound stupid.” She shook her head in frustration. “I _ don’t _ want to know any details about you and Jon, but given your total experience… Seven Hells, this is so bloody awkward.”

“It’s all right.” She patted Arya on the shoulder to reassure her. “I’ve… had more lovers than just Jon, so my advice doesn’t _ necessarily _ come from my experiences with him.” There was a burning question in her mind, but she wasn’t sure if she wanted to know… “Arya? How…”

“The two of you can be quite loud at night.” As Daenerys imagined that both her and Arya had matching blushes, the younger woman continued, “It was a night or two after you and he got married. I was about to take a walk… to get some fresh air, and then I heard screams from your chambers. I rushed over to see if someone was attacking you, some assassins, but then from behind the door I heard you screaming ‘yes’ over and over again, and then ‘oh, Gods,’ and then I figured it was something totally different.” Daenerys attempted to say something, but Arya interrupted, saying, “Then you started yelling out these phrases in another language that wasn’t Common Tongue, but I had no idea what they were…”

“Valyrian,” Daenerys explained. “It was Valyrian. Sometimes when I… get excited, I start talking in that language. It is the native tongue of my house.” 

_ “All right,” _Arya responded, apparently addled by the information she likely wasn’t seeking. “So, I guess I am asking… how do you get to enjoy lovemaking? How does that happen?” 

Daenerys took hold of her hands again before continuing. “One vital thing is to be aware of your own body and what it wants and is not interested in. Let your lover know these things. This involves some practice…”

“Heh, I knew it,” Arya laughed, remembering what she said to Sansa.

“Have you ever… touched yourself? This can help you with understanding what you like.”

“OK,” Arya said, but Danerys sensed she had no idea where to go with that.

“Another tip… make sure to keep eye contact with the man if you want his attention. One phrase I learned early in my first marriage was ‘love comes in at the eyes.’ It’s important that whoever your lover is, that he has some concern for your pleasure and enjoyment. This man you are considering being with, how well do you know him?”

Arya looked around for a moment to make sure they were not being spied on. Then she leaned towards her goodsister, saying, “You _ cannot _ tell Jon this, under any circumstances, hear?” Taking another look behind her, she whispered, “It’s Gendry.”

“King Robert’s bastard?” Daenerys whispered back.

“Yes, but that’s not important,” Arya retorted. “I’ve known him since my father died, and I didn’t know who his father was until now. That’s not why… he’s my friend.”

_ Gods, the bards are going to have a time trying to keep all this girl’s adventures straight. _ “So, you have affection for him.”

“Yes.”

“Do you love him?”

Arya could barely get any words out. “If I do… what am I supposed to do with that? We’re on the edge of all out war with the dead… and the people I love have had a habit of dying on me.”

Daenerys chuckled softly at that. “Well, I’m in the same situation as you, Arya, and I wound up marrying your brother as the dead approach.”

Arya gasped. “Daenerys, I didn’t mean…”

“I know you weren’t criticizing me, Arya. Trust me, I have the same worries as you. I understand your fear. For me… I’ve lived without a true family and friends, and I’ve lived with them and lost them. If I have to choose between those, I’d rather have a family and risk losing them, as painful as that might be. A dragon alone in the world is a terrible thing.”

Arya nodded. “The lone wolf dies…”

“...but the pack survives,” Daenerys said along with her. “That was one of your father’s favorite sayings, I gather, from how often your older siblings repeated it to me.”

“It was.” She looked up and saw how far the sun had risen in the sky. “My apologies, Daenerys, I’ve kept you too long. You’ve given me much to think about. Thank you for your counsel. I greatly appreciate it.”

“Any time. Arya. I suppose this is how sisters are for each other. I wouldn’t know - I had no sisters, of course. You’d have more experience with that, for sure.”

“Not really. Sansa and I were not close confidantes growing up. It’s not been until we returned to Winterfell that we became closer, learned to trust each other.”

“People can learn if they have a mind to it,” Daenerys said, “whether it be fighting, being family… or matters of the heart.”

“That’s very true.”

#

**Tyrion**

He saw the nobles stream into the Great Hall just before midday, the map on the long table in the middle of the room covered with colored stones and cyvasse pieces showing the latest information about the disposition of their own forces and the best estimates of the Army of the Dead’s positions. 

Sansa, Bran, and Samwell Tarly were already seated at the table, with Brienne of Tarth watching over them. The group coming in included Ser Jorah Mormont, Grey Worm, Missandei, Lord Varys, Lord Yohn Royce, Khal Doro, who was the main leader of the Dothraki contingent at Winterfell, Alys Karstark, Ned Umber, Larence Snow, Ser Joren, Wyllis Manderly, Lyanna Mormont, Ser Beric Donderrion, Maester Wolkan, Robett Glover, and Howland Reed. Right behind them was Arya and Gendry… and, to his surprise, a familiar blond and ice-blue eyed woman he’d met in a tent a while back.

It was to Serenei of Lys that Tyrion approached as the others gathered around the table. “Serenei, it’s a pleasure to see you again,” Tyrion said. “What are you here for?”

“Well, first I wanted to thank you, the queen, and Lady Sansa for finally getting those supplies to me,” she said, matter-of-factly. “However, the main reason I’m here was a request to be here from your queen.”

“Indeed?”

“And I have no idea why,” Serenei said.

Tyrion bowed to her. “Well, then, welcome to the war council.”

Serenei decided to walk with Tyrion to the other side of the table from where the Starks, Samwell, Brienne, and Gendry had gathered, while the remainder of the royals found spots around the table as best as they could.

After a few moments, Jon and Daenerys walked into the Great Hall and came to the map table. “Everyone, please find seats if you need a rest, this might be a little while,” Jon said.

As at least some of the lords shuffled to find some stools or benches, Daenerys said, “Lord Tyrion, you were going to review the disposition of our forces before King Jon reviews our current battle strategy.”

“Indeed, Your Grace. I’ll proceed.” Although Jon had continued to be deferential to Daenerys, especially in areas regarding diplomacy, the relations between the various allies, and the logistics of feeding the Army of the Living and those they protected, Tyrion noticed that she deferred to Jon in areas of military strategy. The more she’d gotten to know her new husband and his military mind, the more she’d become impressed by it and willing to trust him.

Tyrion came to the right hand side of the map of Westeros to explain their situation. “With the exception of a few odd formations,” he began, “our forces are concentrated in four different areas.” He pointed to Dragonstone. “Currently, there are 20,000 Dothraki bloodriders and perhaps 3,000 auxiliary levies from the new freedmen of Dragon’s Bay located on the island to defend from attack. Ser Davos Seaworth, our Master of Sail, commands 4,500 sailors on 200 ships detailed to ferry refugees and food to Dragonstone and other supplies to White Harbor. This, obviously, does not take into account any men or ships of Lord Theon of House Greyjoy.

“Lord Wyman Manderly commands a rear guard of 500 men at White Harbor to allow a retreat in the event of an attack of the Army of the Dead,” he continued. “In addition, there is a group of another 500 crannogmen based around Moat Cailin in the event of an attack from the forces allied with Cersei Lannister.”

Lord Howland spoke up. “They should be able to hold against any host for a while, but they’ve still not reported any hostile forces.”

Tyrion nodded in acknowledgement, then moved closer to the area of the map covering Winterfell, covered in cyvasse pieces and stones. “Of course, the vast majority of our fighting forces are located in Winterfell. Among those are 50,000 Dothraki cavalry, 8,000 Unsullied, 15,000 Knights of the Vale, 4,500 Freefolk, and approximately 25,000 infantry, cavalry, and irregulars, women and the young, I mean, from the assorted Northern houses. Also, another contingent of Freefolk will be joining us in a couple of days, along with the remnants of the Night’s Watch and fighters of House Umber. All of those combined would be just under 1,000 soldiers.”

“So, over 100,000 available fighters, against… how many in the Night King’s army, Bran?” Jon asked his brother.

Everyone’s eyes turned to the teenager with the faraway grey eyes seated in the wheelchair next to the map. He pointed to a mass of blue stones arranged north of Winterfell on the map. “At least 100,000 to 120,000 beings of various kinds, including White Walkers, wights, undead giants and mammoths, and ice spiders,” he pronounced to a collective intake of breath amongst the group. “That, of course, does not include the Night King and his new undead dragon mount.”

“It also doesn’t take into account King Jon and I, and our dragons,” Daenerys said, shaking her head as if to rid itself of the image of her child under the Night King’s command. “Your Grace, you were going to review our plans to defend themselves against their army.”

“Yes,” Jon said. “Despite the fact that the dead have just a slight numerical advantage, and we have the advantage of having two rather than just one dragonrider, there are other things that the dead have in their favor. First, they do not require rest or nourishment as we do. This means they naturally have more stamina that us; it also means that we would be foolish to allow a siege of this castle. They would simply wait us out and allow us to starve to death. Also, any of our dead can become potential recruits into the Army of the Dead, thanks to the Night King. So, this means that their numerical advantage is even greater than it initially seems. These factors, and the limitations of our resources here, have led me to the plan that we will follow."

There was a second map on the table, a larger detail of Winterfell and the surrounding area also covered with stones and cyvasse pieces. “Bran has been observing the passage of the Night King’s army,” he said. “Based on what he has seen and the placement of the Night King’s men, it appears that the army will attack us on a broad front stretching from west by northwest to the Kingsroad north of us.” He pointed to an arc of blue stones ringing the upper left hand portion of the Winterfell map. “Our plan is intended to draw this army into a decisive battle as soon as possible, using the strengths of our soldiers and our defensive positions while providing us with the best possible protection against harm and loss of life. Again, the more of our men die, the more chances those dead may come into the thrall of the Night King.” Daenerys nodded as she looked on.

“In the next couple of days, we are going to largely abandon the camps north of Winterfell,” Jon said.

“Where will those men be, Your Grace?” Wyllis Manderly asked.

“Some will be relocated either in the castle grounds or south in the winter town,” Jon replied, “But most of them will be somewhere else.” He pointed out two large collections of cavalry pieces, one group located northeast of Winterfell and another group to the southwest, both in forested areas. “All of our cavalry will be split into two main wings.” He pointed to the group to the northeast. “Khal Doro will command 35,000 Dothraki here, mainly their light cavalry and archers. They will have the most ground to cover, but they are our fastest riders.” He then pointed to the southwestern force. “Lord Royce will command this group, made up of the Knights of the Vale, the rest of our Dothraki cavalry, and what cavalry there is among our Northern bannermen - a little more than 30,000 in total. These two groups will stay out of sight until the dead pass, and once the enemy engage our defenses, they will charge on them from the rear, trapping them between our fighting forces and allowing us to use them to the best of their advantages.”

“All of them will be armed with dragonglass weapons,” Gendry confirmed. “The Dothraki will carry the dragonglass arakhs and arrows, and the Vale knights and northern cavalry with dragonglass-tipped lances, as well as dragonglass axes and long daggers.”

Something about the plan was strange to Tyrion. “Your Grace,” he said to Jon, “Are there any concerns about the Night King sensing these men, even though they will be hidden in the forests?”

To Tyrion’s surprise, Jon turned to his younger brother in response. “The Night King has many powers, but he is not a god by any means,” Bran said. “He can see through the eyes of his soldiers, but not the eyes of the living. He cannot even enter the minds of men except for those with… abilities like mine. As long as they stay hidden, they should go undetected.”

“And, you are confident that the intention of the Night King is to attack Winterfell?” Varys asked.

“Yes. He wishes to add to his army. But, he has another objective here as well.”

“What is that, my lord?” Tyrion said.

“Myself.” All eyes in the room turned to the serene young man in the wheelchair. “As the Three-Eyed-Raven, I am connected to all people and their memories. The Night King seeks to use me to enter the minds of men and destroy them. He has put his mark on me, and he will seek me above all others.” He rolled down the sleeve of his robe to show the bruise-like mark on his forearm.

“Why does the Night King attack… Westeros?” To everyone’s surprise, it was Grey Worm who asked the question. “Why does he do this?”

“It happened during the war between the Children of the Forest and the First Men when the latter first came here,” Bran explained. “The Children were fearful and enraged that they were being slaughtered. They got desperate with their magic, first shattering the Arm of Dorne and then flooding The Neck. When those efforts failed, they resorted to even darker magic to create the Night King, as the ultimate weapon against men, to wipe them out. I saw the Children of the Forest doing this, in the visions of the past.”

What surprised Tyrion was how _ accepting _ everyone in the room was of Bran’s story. Of course, the room was filled with Northerners or members of the Dragon Queen’s army, so they had been witness to, variously, dragons, direwolves, the dead walking, dead men being brought back to life, giants, Children of the Forest, and who knows what else. _ These are times when anything seems possible, _Tyrion thought. 

“It’s not clear who the man who became the Night King was,” Samwell said. “Some think it was a relation of House Stark, or some other warrior, but the histories are not certain of this. What seems clear is that after the Children unleashed him, they either weren’t able to control him or they lost control of him. Think of him as an arrow loosed in the wrong direction, a fireship sent uncontrolled into an enemy fleet, or a maddened war elephant running wild through friendly lines. He will not stop unless we stop him.”

“We know how to stop him?” Arya said, vocalizing the question growing in everyone’s minds.

“Both your brother and I are looking for answers to that, both in his visions and my review of the histories of the north. Right now there’s nothing specific that we’ve seen or found.” Nervously, he got up from where he was seated next to Bran and turned to Jon and Daenerys. “Your Graces, with your permission, I’d like to get back to my research. I know that we are running low on time to find any answer for you.”

Jon nodded. “Of course, Sam.”

“I’ll join you in a while, Sam. I will have to meet with some people here shortly,” Bran said. Sam nodded to him, then headed out of the Great Hall toward the library where he and Bran had been doing their work.

“So, the dead will approach here,” Jon said, pointing to the western and northern sections of the barricades. “They will be forced to climb over them after we have set them on fire, then attempt to storm Winterfell’s walls, all while under fire from flaming arrows and missiles from the castle. 

“We are adding to the height and size of the barricades in the time that we have,” Ser Joren Snow said, “since there are apparently undead mammoths and giants among the Night King’s army.”

“Once they’ve committed themselves to the attack, we’ll bring in our cavalry to hit their reserves from behind, and they’ll be trapped in between our forces,” Jon continued.

“The one thing not taken into account so far is what the Night King will do with this undead dragon that he has under his power,” Lord Glover said.

“He will be dealt with by both the queen and myself on our dragons,” Jon said. “The Night King will be attempting to use… Viserion to breach the walls and find Bran. We should keep you in the Great Keep…”

“No,” Bran said, his voice as cool and smooth as polished ice. “I will be in the godswood. It’s there that I’ll be able to tap into more of my abilities. In addition, it will entice him to come after me there. It is the only option.” The final sentence stated as cold fact.

Jon walked over to his brother and put his hand on his shoulder as he crouched down to meet his eyes. “If that is what you think is best. But, I will make sure you have sufficient guards to protect you until I can come to your aid.”

The subtlest of smiles appeared on Bran’s face. “Whatever you think is best.”

Jon returned the smile and patted his little brother on the cheek. Rising, he said, “I will meet with individual commanders later today to discuss the placement of your forces. Be sure you make all possible preparations in the time we have. I fear that we will not have much of it. Thank you for coming.”

As the meeting began to break up, Tyrion and Serenei were surprised when Daenerys approached them. “You must be Serenei of Lys,” she said to her. “Welcome to Winterfell. Tyrion told me you have been in my service since Meereen, so I am embarrassed not to have met you until now.”

“Think nothing of it, _ Myhsa,” _Serenei said, bowing before her. “There are many that serve you. For me, it is an honor for a former slave like myself to serve the Breaker of Chains.”

“The honor is mine,” Daenerys said as she nodded to her. “My Hand tells me that we have managed to get the supplies you will need, correct?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Excellent. Serenei, I regret to inform you that we’ll need you to move from your current infirmary to a new location within the castle walls.”

“Your Grace?”

“We are going to coordinate your efforts with the maesters of the castle, and the other healers of our forces,” Daenerys explained. “You and Maester Wolkan of Winterfell will lead that effort. We’ll have you set up in the sept in the middle of this courtyard. There should be just enough room to get started, and we can set up other temporary shelters there if needed.”

“One of the interesting things about preparing for this battle is that it’s forcing us to use parts of this castle that haven’t been put into service in years, decades even, like the First Keep,” Jon said as he joined the small group.

“We’ll get started on that right away,” Serenei said.

It was then that Tyrion noticed that Bran was wheeling himself toward the group. “Jon, pardon me,” he said, “but I think we need to get out to the courtyard. We are going to be having visitors soon.”

“What visitors, Bran?”

“Family. And, an old friend,” Bran said with a cryptic smile. He looked behind him at Arya. “Arya, could you help me get out to the courtyard? I’m doing better on my own on flat surfaces, but it gets trickier the rougher the ground is.”

Arya reached over and ruffled his hair before taking hold of the wheelchair’s rear handles. “Anytime, little brother,” she said, and Bran’s resulting grimace was an echo, however faint, of the boy he’d once been.

**Brienne**

She followed the combined Targaryen/Stark family as they made their way into the courtyard. As Lady of Winterfell, Sansa would be the one to officially greet any new visitors to the castle, so she led the way. The new King and Queen of Westeros followed to Sansa’s right, holding hands and having a quiet conversation about who the visitors might be. To Sansa’s left, Arya was pushing Bran along.

The family gathering made her think of her own family. She had not written to her father, Lord Selwyn Tarth, known as the Evenstar, for at least a year. Seeing as how she was his only remaining child and heir, she felt it was a dereliction of family duty on her part. In any case, he had been too caring of a father to her, too willing to go along with her obsession of being a warrior, to simply ignore him.

Part of her suggestion to the queen that Tarth could be used as a place of safety for the noncombatants was that she wanted an excuse to contact him. She resolved to do it anyway - and in any case, in the event they survived the dead, they would be needing more allies in the war against Cersei. The alternative, having her father somehow swear to Cersei and encountering him on the battlefield, was a fate too terrible to contemplate.

As they stopped in the middle of the courtyard, Sansa got the attention of one of the guards. “Have the watchmen check the approach on the Kingsroad,” she said. “My brother has said we are soon to have visitors.”

“Yes, My Lady,” he said.

There were a few minutes when the party stood waiting and wondering. Finally, Sansa turned to her brother on the left. “Are these people coming?” she asked.

“We will see them soon,” Bran said, unperturbed and serene as he leaned back into his chair.

Not seconds after Bran spoke, there was a call from the South Gate. “Lady Sansa, we see riders!” the lookout shouted. “Riders, and wagons too. A thousand people at least, likely more.”

Brienne could see Sansa was shocked - _ she should likely expect this from some all-seeing seer of a brother, _ she thought. “Do they fly any sigils, any identification?” Sansa called out.

“One moment, my lady.” There was silence for a few moments. “We see banners of a silver eagle, a red horse, and crows surrounding a weirwood tree.”

Sansa turned to Jon and Daenerys. “The sigils of Houses Mallister, Bracken, and Blackwood,” she said, reciting from memory. “All Riverlands houses.”

“My Lady,” the watchmen called down from the gate, “We see the silver trout sigil among them as well.”

Sansa turned in shock to meet Arya’s stunned stare as Bran simply nodded in acknowledgement. “Open the gates,” Sansa found herself saying.

#

The vanguard of the small army passed through the South Gate in a few minutes. Brienne saw a man with auburn hair and intense blue eyes leading them, dressed in chain mail and covered in a red and blue cloak with a silver trout across the back. _ Lord Edmure, Lady Catelyn’s brother, _ Brienne realized.

Two other men rode beside Lord Edmure. The first one, a black-haired man with a stubbly beard and black ringmail over leather with a crimson cloak, Brienne identified him to her surprise as Ser Bronn of the Blackwater. The other rider was apparently wearing some armor, but kept himself covered with a black woolen cloak with the hood pulled down well over his eyes and hands covered in black gloves.

“Ser Jaime,” Bran called out as the riders came to a stop, “It’s good to see you again.”

  
The third rider hesitated for a moment, then with his left hand eased his hood off his head. Brienne recognized the shock of bright blond hair and beard now flecked with grey, the sharp cheekbones, and the bright green eyes that stared out at Lord Bran. After a few moments, however, Ser Jaime turned and locked eyes with her, and she found she could not look away. _ It’s him again, _ she thought. _ Gods, I think we’re fated to be thrown together in life. _She met his gaze despite herself.


	19. The Lion and Trout in Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Riverlands comes to the aid of the living and the Kingslayer is received at Winterfell. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another one of those midweek updates. Hope you enjoy it.

19.

**Jaime**

He heard the boy’s voice first calling out his greeting, but it was no longer the voice of a boy.

He lifted his hood off his head. The young man who could only be Brandon Stark, whom he had shoved off a tower in this very castle to keep a deadly secret of his and Cersei’s, was now before him like some strange omen.

Bran sat before him in a chair that at first glance looked like a crude throne, but Jaime noticed the wheels - _that would make sense for him,_ he thought. His face had lengthened and thinned out from the chubbiness of youth, and the boy fixed him with a grey-eyed gaze that was not of a callow youth but held centuries in it.

Then, he saw the figure looming from behind over the Starks and the Dragon Queen. He recognized immediately the short straw hair, wide mouth, and sapphire eyes of Brienne of Tarth. She was staring at him in disbelief, but… _did she _nod_ to me? I can’t tell._

As Edmure dismounted and started walking toward Sansa, who came to greet him, he saw the Unsullied captain - _Grey Worm, wasn’t it? A strange name for a soldier_ \- make his way to his and Bronn’s side with two of his men armed with spears. Before they could reach him, Jaime had already unbuckled his sword and held it out to Grey Worm. “Well ahead of you,” Jaime said as Grey Worm accepted Widow’s Wail. Bronn also gave up his sword to the Unsullied, but Jaime noticed that he made no move to surrender the dagger that he kept in one boot. They did not search him.

He saw Edmure and Sansa wrap each other in a hug, all highborn protocols tossed over to the side. “Uncle,” she said with a wide smile as they separated.

He held her by the shoulders as he examined Sansa’s features. “Gods, you look just like she did now,” he whispered. “It’s amazing. I’m so glad you survived, at least.”

“Not just me,” she said, turning to the left. Arya wheeled up Bran to them.

Edmure looked down at Bran. “You remind me of your father, how he used to sit on the throne in Winterfell’s Great Hall.”

“It’s good to see you, Uncle,” Bran replied in a serene voice. “We’ve been expecting you for a while.”

“Where were you, Uncle?” Arya asked, her worry apparent.

“First my father-in-law held me captive in Riverrun, then Cersei’s men,” Edmure said.

“Oh, Gods, I’m sorry,” Arya said, hands flying to her face. “I was in Riverrun earlier, but I didn’t think… I thought you were dead.”

He patted Arya’s head then, appearing to try and calm her down. “It’s all right, Niece. I’m here now.” He lifted up her chin to see her. “You remind me a bit of your aunt Lyanna, but there’s more than a little of your father in you, as well.”

Roslin and Hoster got down from one of the wagons, and Edmure pointed them out to them. Sansa was excited to see them, Bran pleasantly neutral, and Arya seemed to be somewhat apprehensive. Jaime recalled Edmure’s theory that his youngest niece might be the Vengeance of the North that had wiped out his male in-laws and their bannermen.

Sansa led Edmure to stand before Jon and Daenerys. “Your Graces, may I present my uncle, Edmure Tully, rightful Lord of Riverrun and Lord Paramount of the Riverlands.”

“Your Grace,” he said to Daenerys, bowing to her. As he got up, he also nodded to Jon. “Lord Snow,” he said.

“Actually, my husband, the King of the North and Westeros, should be also referred to as ‘Your Grace,’” Daenerys said in a cool voice.

“I… what? Pardon?” Edmure said.

“Pardon my uncle,” Sansa broke in. “He has been kept captive for some time and is not aware of current events.” She turned to Edmure. “The situation is… a bit complicated,” Sansa said.

After a quick eye blink and double-take, Edmure kneeled again, this time toward Jon. “Beg your pardon, Your Grace,” he said.

“Think nothing of it, my lord,” Jon replied casually.

“Lord Edmure, thank you for traveling here,” the dragon queen said. “If you do not mind, I would like to speak with you in the Great Hall, and have you let me know how you came to be here.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Edmure said, as Sansa led him toward the great hall and her siblings followed.

Jaime was surprised to see Tyrion emerge from the crowd and walk to his side. He leaned down to give his brother a hug. “Told you I’d make it up here,” Jaime said.

“Hopefully you won’t have cause to regret it,” Tyrion said. “Come on, then.”

Tyrion led Jaime and Bronn to stand in front of Daenerys. “Your Grace,” Jaime said to her.

“Ser Jaime,” Daenerys replied. “And this is…”

“Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, Your Grace,” Bronn replied with a short bow.

The queen nodded. “I remember you. I saw you briefly during the meeting at the Dragonpit. Then, during the Battle of the Loot Train, I saw you firing a scorpion bolt into the neck of my child,” she concluded, her violet eyes narrowing at him.

“I remember you tried to get said child to turn me into barbecue during said battle,” Bronn said, then held up his hand. “Now, you have nothing to worry about from me, Your Grace - I’m not the type of man to hold grudges.”

Jaime saw the queen turn her head away with the slightest curl at the right side of her mouth and… _was she trying to keep from laughing?_ “That’s good to know,” she said after finally turning back to face him. “My Hand, would you and Grey Worm escort your brother and his fellow knight to the Great Hall? We have to discuss their… status.”

“Of course, my Queen,” Tyrion said.

As he, Bronn, and Tyrion made their way to the Great Hall, he leaned down to ask his brother, “What’s going on? Is Jon Snow still King of the North or not?”

“Like my former wife said, the situation is complicated,” Tyrion said. “I’ll try to explain on the way.”

#

“...and then we made our way here. I have to say, that without the help of Sers Jaime and Bronn, I and my family would still be in the dungeons of Riverrun or in a far worse situation,” Edmure said as he concluded his tale of escape in the Great Hall in front of Jon and Daenerys, seated together at the table of honor.

Only the Stark siblings sat at the table next to their brother and goodsister. Brienne, Grey Worm, and a contingent of Unsullied watched Jaime, Bronn, and the exits. Tyrion stood beside the table, his eyes on his brother.

“Thank you, Lord Edmure,” Daenerys said. “How many fighting men accompanied you to Winterfell, might I ask?”

“Around 2,500,” he responded. “I was surprised to have been able to raise the amount of bannermen that we did in the time we had. However, Ser Jaime advised that we not stay too long in the Riverlands, both in case we were needed immediately in Winterfell and to avoid detection by Cersei’s forces.”

“My brother’s advice was sound,” Tyrion said. “Your nephew believes that the dead will be here in a week. If you had stayed longer attempting to rally more troops, you might have missed out on the fighting altogether.”

“Your Grace,” Edmure said to Daenerys, “I and some of my bannermen have brought their families here, but I have to admit that I fear for their safety against this army of dead people.”

“Very understandable,” she replied. “We have been sending those unable to fight to White Harbor by wagon and then to Dragonstone by ship. There they will have food, shelter, and protection under the command of our Master of Sail, Ser Davos Seaworth. We will make sure your family is on their way to White Harbor by first light tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Your Graces,” Edmure said. “You are very generous.”

“You have sworn your sword to me and may lose your life fighting against the dead,” Daenerys said. “Looking after your families is the least I can do.”

“If at all possible, I would like to check with my bannermen to make sure they are settled into their quarters.”

“By all means.” With that, Edmure bowed one more time, turned on his heels, and made his way out of the great hall. As he left, Jaime took a few steps forward and stood in front of Jon and Daenerys.

“When I was growing up in The Free Cities, my brother Viserys would tell me many stories about our family, and those who betrayed that family. He told me of a knight in my father’s Kingsguard, a golden-haired young man who had sworn to protect him and wound up stabbing him in the back when his enemies were at our gates. And there were many a night when we talked about what we would do to this Kingslayer when our family returned to Westeros.”

“And now, the long-awaited day is here,” Jaime said with a calm that surprised him. Maybe it was because facing death had become routine over the past few months.

“Ser Jaime, I want to hear your account of the death of my father. There was the story I heard from my brother, the story I heard from your brother, and the story I heard from Ser Barristan Selmy. However, I want to hear your version.”

“Beg your pardon, Your Grace, but I understand Ser Barristan is dead. May I ask what happened to him? I understand he traveled to Essos to serve you.”

She hugged herself and closed her eyes as she heard Jaime’s question. “He served in my Queensguard, yes. Ser Barristan died in battle, protecting the people of Meereen from the forces of their former slave masters.”

Jaime started down at the floor. It hit him at that moment that he’d never see him again. “Good,” Jaime finally said.

“Excuse me?” Daenerys said, a hint of irritation audible as she narrowed her eyes at him and leaned forward in her chair. 

“I knew Ser Barristan since I was a teenage boy, many years more than yourself,” Jaime said. “He often shared with me that one of his greatest fears was to grow old and no longer be of service, or not serving a king or queen worthy of the name. Trust me, Your Grace, if he’d had the opportunity to choose a death for himself, he’d have picked the one he had.”

Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and leaned back in her chair. As she then looked back at Jaime, she said, “Ser Jaime… I thank you for your insight on that issue. However, you had a story you we’re going to tell me.”

Jaime nodded. “King Aerys was in the throne room alone except for his chief pyromancer. Your mother and brother were on Dragonstone by then; Rhaegar was dead by then, so was his wife and children.” He grunted in disgust at the memory. “My father had already opened the gates of the city; it was only a matter of time when Lord Stark’s forces had control of King’s Landing. Aerys plotted to wait until the enemy forces were within the walls and then set off all the wildfire underneath the city, wiping them out along with the rest of the city. The chief pyromancer went to give the orders, but… I just couldn’t allow it.” He stared down at his feet. “I chased after the pyromancer and cut him down before he could send the orders. Then I returned to the throne room where Aerys was trying to find someone to carry out his orders. I think he might have been about to ask me when I stabbed him.”

“What was the last words he spoke?” The queen almost whispered those words.

“They were the same words he’d been screaming all day. ‘Burn them.’” Jaime raised his head and locked eyes with Daenerys. “‘Burn them all.’”

For a while, there was silence in the great hall as Daenerys and Jaime took each other’s measure. Finally, she said, “We are now going to consider what will happen to you, at least in the short term.” She turned to Tyrion, who was standing off to her left at one end of the table. “My Hand, although you obviously have your… biases regarding your brother, I would be interested to hear your opinion of what should happen to him.”

Tyrion walked around the front of the table and came to stand on Jaime’s right side facing his queen as Bronn stood on Jaime’s left side. “My brother has never been one without sin,” he began as he adjusted his coat. “In fact, he would be the first to admit this. Unlike my sister, or our father, or even my eldest nephew, his sins were not the effect of a hunger for power or cruelty toward men. He was eager to turn down the role of Lord of Casterly Rock for the life of a Kingsguard knight. Any sins that my brother committed were solely in the name of protecting his family from harm.”

Jaime nodded. “I looked out for the interest of my family, including my brother, my sister Cersei… and our children.”

The claim echoed in the room like a thunderclap. All were in shock, not necessarily at the news - the rumors were well known for years - but Jaime’s admission shook everyone in the room except for Jaime and the Unsulled guards. “Jaime,” Tyrion whispered to him, “don’t yo…”

“What’s the point in denying it, Tyrion?” Jaime said, whirling to look down on him. “All of them are dead; the whole fucking point of the War of the Five Kings is now moot. Seven Hells.” He turned back to Daenerys. “All I did was to preserve their safety, and faced with the same choices, I would do it again.”

“The things we do for love,” Bran said in a calm, neutral voice.

Jaime froze, not breathing, as he stared at the placid youth and waited for him to speak another sentence, another slice of information enough to prompt the king and queen to take his life. After several moments of silence, however, Tyrion decided to move forward with his defense of his brother. 

“However, my brother is a true believer in the idea that his word is his bond,” Tyrion continued. “Cersei decided to break her promise to you regarding her support, and Jaime’s honor would be intact in most eyes. However, he considers a promise by his liege lord to be the same as a promise by him. So, he decided to fulfill his sister’s promise of support and an army by doing his best to secure that army for you in any way he could.”

“In doing so, I attempted to right a wrong I committed by imprisoning Lord Edmure and taking his rightful property away from him,” Jaime added.

“In doing so, he freed a hostage of great importance to my sister in clear defiance of her wishes,” Tyrion continued. “That, plus riding to the North… I would not be surprised that my sister declares a death sentence for him.”

“If you insist that you fight for your family, Ser Jaime, why have you gone against your family to come here?” Daenerys said.

“That is because we now face a greater danger,” he replied. “The Army of the Dead could destroy us all, including my family. Cersei does not understand this, but I do.”

“How do we know that this is not a ruse to allow you to spy on us for the benefit of your sister?”

“If I may, Your Grace, that seems improbable considering the presence of the dead just outside our walls,” Tyrion said. “How could Cersei expect…”

“Your Grace, if I could speak?” Brienne of Tarth called out from the back of the hall. 

“Of course, my lady,” Daenerys said. “Feel free to talk.”

Brienne came to the middle of the hall to flank Jaime and the rest. “I have known Ser Jaime for some time, and I know him to be a man of his word.” She drew Oathkeeper from its sheath and laid it down on the ground in front of the royal couple. “Ser Jaime gave me this sword to protect Lady Sansa and Arya Stark, and return them to their home,” she continued, “to fulfill a vow he had made to their mother. I did everything I could to fulfill that vow. I believe if Ser Jaime had not done what he did, Lady Sansa, you would be either dead or have suffered a face worse than death in the possession of Ramsey Snow.” Jaime saw Sansa grip the armrests of her chair tightly as it looked like nightmares flashed behind her eyes.

“Ser Jaime and I traveled together for a time as I was attempting to search for Sansa and Arya,” Brienne continued. “After a time, we were taken prisoners by men of House Bolton. During our captivity, Ser Jaime saved me from death at least once, and at another time saved me from being raped by another group of men. Our captors took his hand for that last deed. He did everything he could to act as an honorable knight during the time I have known him, and he has always kept his word to me whenever he gave it.”

Sansa had been lost in thought as Brienne spoke, but now turned her attention back to Brienne. “Would you be willing to fight alongside Ser Jaime, my lady?”

Brienne nodded without hesitation. “I would.”

Sansa turned to the queen. “Ser Jaime fought against our family, but he had nothing to do with the killing of our parents and Robb. Given the dangers that we are facing against the Night King’s army, and given what he has done for my uncle and bringing his fighting men here, we could at least give him a chance to prove his willingness to help us.”

As Brienne resheathed her sword, Daenerys had been studying Jaime throughout the entire conversation. “What are your thoughts, Your Grace?”

To his mild surprise – he still thought of Jon Snow as the Bastard of Winterfell who went to the Wall – Jon shrugged. “We can use any man we can get, to be honest. We don’t have to totally trust him to work with him.”

Daenerys kept her face neutral at Jon’s advice. “How good of a fighter would you rate yourself to be nowadays, Ser Jaime?” Daenerys asked.

Jaime took off the glove from his golden hand and waved it beside his head, as if greeting someone. “I have to admit that I’m not the fighter that I used to be in my youth,” he said. “However, I’d wager the gold in this hand that I’m still better than all but a few of your fighters.”

“More to the point, I think, is Jaime’s experience with military leadership,” Tyrion said. “For years, he has commanded men in the field in a variety of circumstances. With all due respect to His Grace’s preparations for this battle, which I think have been very sound, his insight might prove very valuable. His experience would make him a valuable battle commander, even in a small role.”

Daenerys’ eyes never left Jaime’s face. “Let me ask you another question. Say we do defeat the Night King with your help. What would your plans be in those circumstances?”

He considered his answer for a moment, and realized speaking the truth was the only thing left for him. “I would return to King’s Landing, but not to fight on the side of my sister.”

“Then why…”

“Cersei is pregnant,” Jaime said. “Euron might believe, or fool himself into believing, that the child is his, but it is in fact mine.”

Sansa was scowling as she heard this. “What, we’re going to spare her just because she’s pregnant? After all she’s done?”

“We’re not killing a pregnant woman.” To the shock of many in the room, it was Arya who had spoken. “We can execute her after she has a child, but executing pregnant women isn’t who we are.” _With her eyes boring into me at any chance, I’m surprised she’s the voice of reason._

“Would your intention be to save Cersei in some way?” Daenerys said.

“It pains me to say it, but I think she is beyond saving,” Jaime murmured, almost out of the hearing range of those in front of him. “My concern is for my future child. I had three children, Your Grace, but never had the privilege of raising them as a father. Cersei raised our children and, even though she is not entirely at fault, she contributed to the deaths of those children. If there is the smallest chance that this child survives, I have to see if I can find him or her and be the father I never was to its brothers or sister.”

Daenerys cocked her head as she tried to get the measure of him. Out of the corner of his eye, Jaime could see Arya nod quietly to Jon after catching his eye. “Ser Jaime,” Daenerys said, “Would I have your word of honor that you would not leave Winterfell or attempt to contact your sister until the battle with the dead has concluded?”

Hesitating only for a moment, Jaime kneeled in front of Daenerys and Jon. “I give my word of honor on this, Your Graces. I swear it by the old gods and new, and the souls of my children both dead and yet to be born.”

Daenerys then glanced over at Jon, who took one more look at Arya, then at Bran, who nodded to him, before speaking. “I think we should keep him around.”

“Very well,” the queen said. “Grey Worm,” she nodded, and the Unsullied commander handed him Widow’s Wail with a stony glance and no words. “You will be escorted around Winterfell before the battle to avoid any… mischief. Perhaps you can give Jon some ideas about our plans for the battle – I will leave it in his hands how you will be used during it.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Jaime said.

“Perhaps you should wait to thank me, Ser Jaime. I’m only giving you an opportunity to die honorably as of yet.” Her attention turned to Tyrion. “Do you know anything of Ser Bronn’s reputation, my Hand?”

“Ah, yes. Ser Bronn was in my service for a couple of years, actually,” Tyrion said. “He has the mentality of a true sellsword, but he did volunteer to fight for me in a trial by combat once. He is a very cunning and experienced warrior, blessed with… a ruthless practicality. We could certainly use him.”

“I’m curious, Ser Bronn, why you choose to join Ser Jaime and his trip up to the North rather than continue to serve Cersei? I imagine she promised you gold, a castle at least.”

“Aye, she did, but it would be hard to enjoy those gifts if you get blown up by wildfire in King’s Landing like she planned,” he replied to the queen. “Figured I’d have slightly better luck not getting killed up here, all things considered.”

“Where is the wildfire located at in King’s Landing?” Daenerys asked.

Bronn’s eyebrow raised at the question. “They’re all over in the underground tunnels, under pretty much all the city. Cersei and Qyburn were talking about how there’s enough under there to level the city three times over.”

“Ser Bronn, would you be able to perhaps show on a map where this wildfire is located, or draw a map for us?” Jon said. Turning to Daenerys, he said, “When we eventually go down to King’s Landing, we’re not going to be able to just storm the place without getting blown up, it seems. We’ll have to have a plan for it.”

“As I said before, I don’t want to be the new Mad Queen or the Queen of the Ashes,” Daenerys said. “Whether I do the burning or Cersei with her wildfire, it will make no difference to those it kills and their loved ones.” Daenerys then turned to Bronn. “Helping us locate those wildfire caches will be very valuable to us, Ser Bronn. I can guarantee that I and King Jon will make good on Tyrion’s promise of gold and land to you.”

Ser Bronn took a modest bow. “I appreciate your generosity, Your Grace.”

“I have more than a little knowledge of the city, Your Grace,” Tyrion said to Daenerys. “I can help draw this map for you with Bronn’s assistance.”

“Jon, I did more than a little exploring of those tunnels underneath King’s Landing while I was there with Father,” Arya said. “I might be able to be some help with them.”

“All right,” Jon said. Turning to Daenerys, he said, “Even though the dead are our top priority, I believe we also need to start thinking about how to handle Cersei and King’s Landing.”

“Very well,” Daenerys said. “In the meantime, why don’t you review our plans for the dead with Ser Jaime? We may as well make use of his military mind.” With only the smallest of smirks, Daenerys nodded and rose to her feet, indicating that the tribunal was over.

“Looks as if you have a stay of execution, Brother,” Tyrion said as he joined Jaime in the center of the room.

“I’d be more at ease if they looked happier about it,” Jaime mumbled.

“Well, I think your idea of making off with an army to present to Their Graces was an excellent way of showing your good faith, and the fact that it was the uncle of most of the Starks leading them also was in your favor.” With a low _ping_, Tyrion tapped Jaime’s gold hand. “Let’s have you take a look at our plans to fight the dead.”

#

After Jon had reviewed the plans in detail, Jaime’s raised eyebrows showed his surprise. “I have to say that this plan seems sound, all factors considered.” He turned to Jon. “It seems you became more of a general than you were hacking at wooden practice dummies in the courtyard here.” He, Tyrion, and Jon were the only people in the great hall by then, with the exception of the two Unsullied guards Daenerys had tasked to watch his every move.

The compliment seemed to roll off Jon’s back. “I’ve grown as a soldier since then, and had more than some experience fighting the dead,” he said, “but if you see something lacking in our plans, I would be grateful to hear it.”

Jaime examined the blue stones representing wight giants, mammoths, and ice spiders among the formerly human wights. “These are going to be a major problem for us,” he said. “I think this… Ser Joren seems reasonable in wanting to increase the size and height of the barricades, but I’m not sure that’s enough to stop them from crashing through. Especially out to the north, where they’ll have more room to build up momentum.” He thought for a moment. “Out in Essos, where they use war elephants more often, metal spikes on the ground or hidden holes in them are common ways to defeat them. They might work on the giants as well.”

“Holes trapping their legs might work, but there’s no way we can dig into the ground when it’s frozen up as it is,” Jon said. “As for the spikes, I know they can madden elephants, but these dead either do not feel pain or can ignore it entirely.”

“Maybe we could attach some dragonglass to those spikes,” Jaime mused, resting his chin on his good hand as he pointed to the map with his golden hand. Also,” he continued as he reached down with his good hand to trace out something on the table. “We could rig up some larger log pikes, with one point out and the rest that could dig into the ground if they run into them. Even if they _don’t_ run into them, it would slow them down enough that they wouldn’t be able to crash through the barricades.”

“That would help, I think.” Jon said. “Ser Joren and your brother can help organize getting those ready… any clue about fighting giant ice spiders? I’ve not had the pleasure myself.”

_What in Seven Hells…_ Jaime thought to himself. With a huff and a shrug, he volunteered, “Let’s hope they don’t spin ice webs, I guess.”

That prompted a chuckle from Jon, shaking his head. _Not as gloomy as I remember,_ Jaime thought. _Maybe marriage and a woman of his own have cheered him up. Or maybe his humor’s just dark. _“Shall we take a moment to tour the defenses, Ser Jaime, Tyrion.”

“Lead the way, Your Grace.”

#

**Arya**

She knocked on the door in Winterfell’s guest quarters, and within a few moments, Roslin Frey opened the door. “Hello, Aunt Roslin,” she said quietly. “I know you will be leaving tomorrow, but I felt I needed to speak with you before then.”

Roslin kept her eyes on the floor as she poked her head out of the doorway. “Come in, My Lad…”

“I’m just Arya to you, please,” Arya said, trying to smile. “Thank you.”

She examined Roslin carefully. Her chest-length brown hair sometimes covered her face if she leaned forward. She was slightly shorter than her, unimposing. Roslin was a few name days older than Sansa, so it felt strange to call her aunt, even though she’d gone through the custom. _Daenerys is technically Jon’s aunt even though they’re the same age,_ she remembered.

The room was sparse but comfortable, with the family’s baggage piled in one corner in preparation for the trip south. “Hoster was outside with some of the other Riverlands boys,” Roslin said. “It’s been good for him to play with others his age. I hope there are some more on Dragonstone, and places to play.”

“There’s plenty of children there now,” Arya replied. “Jon’s friend Samwell Tarley has a boy about your son’s age out there. You’ll be safe, I know it…”

“I have to ask you, Arya,” Roslin interrupted, hugging herself with her arms to prevent them from shaking, “are you the one they call the Vengance of the North?”

Now it was Arya’s turn to look away to the ground, unsure of herself, even though she had planned on broaching the subject with her. “I suppose I turned myself into one, with my actions.”

The trembling and nervousness had crept to Roslin’s jaw as she approached Arya. “I’ve got to ask why. Well, I suppose I know why…”

“I was a little out of my mind by that point,” Arya said, looking up. The sight of tears starting to pool in the corners of Arya’s eyes froze Roslin in place. “You have to understand, at that time, I thought _all_ of my family and friends besides were gone. I though I had nothing left in this world except vengeance.” She waited for Roslin to respond, but it looked like she was having difficulty finding any words to speak. “I saw your father’s men parade my brother’s body around on horseback with his direwolf’s head sewn to his body. If someone hadn’t knocked me out and taken me away, I would have charged in there and gotten killed by them.”

There was silence for a time. Finally, Roslin said, “How old were you when that happened?”

A tear rolled down Arya’s left cheek. “Four and ten,” she said.

She was shocked to feel Roslin brush away the tear from her cheek. “Seven hells,” she said, shuddering. “My father was far, far from perfect. He kept me locked away for years after your mother and brother’s death, often not letting me see Edmure and even Hoster for months at a time. Typical for a man who only thought of women as broodmares and pleasure vessels – I daresay it would not have been a place that you would have found welcoming growing up,” she concluded, eyeing Needle and Catspaw on Arya’s belt. “My brothers were no different. In a way, I mourn them, but I also know the evil they caused. My father caused so much evil during his long lifetime I often wondered if it would not reflect back on him as a punishment from the Gods. And it appears that it came in the form of you.”

Wiping her eyes, Arya now locked eyes with Roslin. “I want you to know, Aunt, that you and my cousin and my cousins to come should have no fear of me.”

“Arya, I didn’t think…”

Arya reached down to her belt, hesitated, then drew Needle from its sheath, taking care to grasp the blade just above the hilt by her fingertips. She kneeled down, laying the sword at Roslin’s feet, and bowed her head. “I swear to you now that my blade will protect you, my uncle, and your children just as I would protect my brothers and sister,” she whispered. “All of you are family just as much as they are, and I will treat you as such. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New.”

She kneeled there for several moments until Roslin reached down to touch her cheek. She raised Arya up to her feet, and then drew the younger woman into a hug. “Thank you, Niece,” she said. “Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This turned out to be a bit longer than I expected, which I this is going to happen more often than not with these Winterfell updates. 
> 
> Just a couple thoughts:
> 
> 1\. Yes, Jaime and Brienne are now in the same castle. No, I know they didn’t interact that much in this chapter. Yes, that will change.  
2\. I liked the dynamic between Jon and Jaime planning strategy. Yes, Jon’s grown as a leader and general, and he does have the most expertise of, well, anyone at fighting the dead. However, Jaime’s seen a lot and fought a lot, and it looks like he’ll be able to contribute something more than his sword before it’s done.  
3\. Everyone, I was not expecting the Arya/Roslin scene. But when Edmure and family showed up at Winterfell, I knew I had to have a scene where she reckoned with becoming the Vengeance of the North. It’s another step in Arya’s personal journey.
> 
> So, next chapter we’ll see more interaction at Winterfell as our heroes try to get a handle on what they truly face and, in some cases, what they want in their lives. It’ll be a big one - hopefully it gets done in ten days or so? Enjoy.


	20. Waiting for the Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Living in Winterfell prepare themselves for the prospect of facing the Dead.

20.

**Jaime**

After a brief tour of the perimeter defenses, Jon took his leave from him to meet with some of the other commanders before midday. Then Jaime met with Tyrion, who had gotten him settled into a room in the castle’s main guest quarters, next to his own quarters. The whole process took only a few minutes; he barely had anything of value with him as he’d traveled to the North.

As the two brothers walked out of the guest quarters, Jaime heard, “Ser Jaime? A moment of your time?”

He looked up to see Brandon Stark, seated in the wheeled chair contraption of his, waiting in front of the entrance to the guest quarters, the main courtyard of the castle behind him. “Yes, My Lord?” Jaime managed to say. “Do you need something…?”

“I was just sitting here, seeing everyone at their work,” Bran said, nodding behind him. The normally spacious courtyard was now rapidly filling with Tyrion’s adjustable catapults, sacks and casks of food and drink headed to temporary granaries and storage areas, tents popping up as temporary shelters and latrines, and people on the move and at their work, with little idle chatter. “It’s… a way to contemplate things, contemplate people,” Bran said. “Ser Jaime, would you be willing to take me to the library tower, near the Hunter’s Gate? I’ll need to continue my work with Lord Tarly.”

“Um, if that’s what you want,” Ser Jaime said as he approached him. “How…?”

“There are handles on the back of the chair. You’ll see them when you get behind.”

“I have to meet with the Queen, Jaime. We’ll likely see each other again at suppertime.”

“Understood. I’ll see you later, Tyrion.”

As Jaime walked behind him to take hold of the chair, Bran got the attention of the two Unsullied guards that had trailed him out of the Great Hall. “Pardon me, gentlemen, but would you be willing to follow us behind at a distance? I wished to speak to Ser Jaime in private.”

“Yes, My Lord,” one of the guards said in the Common Tongue with a heavy Astapor accent. Grey Worm had made sure Ser Jaime’s guards could understand the Common Tongue before assigning them to trail the knight.

After Jaime had gotten going and the guards trailed a few yards behind to give them privacy, Jaime managed to find his voice. “’The things we do for love.’” He groaned and shook his head. “I was expecting you to say a lot more than that at the tribunal, Lord Brandon.”

“I’m not really a lord; I’m really the Three-Eyed-Raven,” he countered mildly as he continued to stare ahead, not looking over his shoulder. “To keep things simpler, feel free to call me Bran.”

“Why didn’t you say anything in there?” Jaime whispered to Bran, leaning almost over his head. “Why didn’t you mention… how I hurt you?”

“What would the point of that be?” Bran said. “Jon was right, we’re going to need every fighter against the Night King’s army. As for what you did… it wasn’t right, but I… understand it now. Why you did it.”

“Bran, I…”

“At the time it happened, of course, I was furious,” Bran said, a touch of the impatient boy he’d been sneaking into his voice. “But… I don’t think I could punish you worse than your three children dying on you, the same ones you were trying to protect by keeping me from telling what I’d seen. With that and everything else you’ve been through… you’ve been through enough, watching them die.”

“I was there for the deaths of my first two children, but not Tommen,” Jaime said. “Cersei said he’d done away with himself…”

“She was right,” Bran said, his voice now returning to its normal low and neutral state. “He was horrified at what Cersei had done, killing his uncle and cousin. He especially regretted the death of his wife Queen Margery. He was very fond of her, you know.”

“I see.”

“Anyway, what you did was one of the things that put me onto the path of being the Three-Eyed-Raven. I once thought I would be a knight for my house, like you. Instead, I am on a different path. Now that I realize what has happened, I see that it has been for the best. My abilities could be worth the same as 10,000 troops for my brother, and I must focus on that and that only. Any grudge that is left with the part of me that is Brandon Stark is irrelevant.”

At that point, they’d gone through the increasingly packed courtyard and were at the main entry to the library tower. Jaime rotated Bran around so that they could face each other. “Regardless of your reasons, thank you for giving me another chance.”

“I can look into the past, but the future is only shadows and hints to me,” Bran said, smiling. “However, I don’t need to have greensight to see that there is no guarantee any of us have a future after the battle with the dead.” To that, Jaime had no response as he helped him into the building.

#

**Jon**

He entered the main hall of the library tower to find his friend and brother surrounded by a figurative forest of books. 

Sam and Bran were on opposite sides of a long table covered with books and scrolls. Extra books surrounded them to the extent that Bran appeared to be unable to move his chair. “Thanks for coming, Jon.” Bran intoned.

“Any answers to be had about how to stop them?” Jon said, finding a chair next to Sam to sit down in. 

“Trying to find anything in these books is a maze where you can’t even see the walls half the time,” Sam said, shaking his head. “All of this occurred during The Age of Heroes, before The Wall. What part of all this is real and what part is myth is anyone’s guess.”

Jon looked over at Bran. “Do you see anything?”

Bran leaned back in his chair. “The farther I go back in time, the more unclear things are, especially when we’re not exactly sure what we’re looking for. I don’t know whether it’s because all of this happened so far in the past, or whether I haven’t learned how to use my abilities properly, or a bit of both.” He sighed. “Between trying to find this information and keeping track of The Others as they come here…”

“You need to look after yourself, Brother,” Jon said. “I want you to be well, for one thing, and we’ll need you when they come here.”

“Sam is making sure I get enough to eat, enough sleep. I’m glad the queen looks after you.”

Jon’s face screwed up as he tried to figure out what Bran meant. “Brandon Stark…”

“I meant she makes sure you get enough rest and food, Jon,” he said, shaking his head. “I… don’t look at those sort of things, Jon. At least not intentionally.”

“Thank the Gods for that,” Jon laughed. 

“One thing we have read about was the legend of Azor Ahai,” Sam said. 

“The one that the Red Witch spoke of, the one the followers of the Lord of Light say will return again,” Jon said. “Do you know that she was actually the one that suggested Dany send for me? From the way she described the Red Witch, she seemed to think that either I or Dany could be Azor Ahai reborn, this Prince Who Was Promised. Or princess, I guess…”

“Dany?” Sam said, surprised.

“The Q… my wife,” Jon said.

“Oh, yes, of course,” Sam replied. 

“I only saw one image of it,” Bran said. “I saw a man who looked like a man of the North, something like Father. For all I know he could have been Bran the Builder. Maybe he was, for all I know. But I saw him forging the blade, Lightbringer. I saw him plunge the blade into the heart of his beloved, Nissa Nissa, and the sword flamed into life.”

“And we know that he used the blade to stop the Night King?” Jon asked. 

Bran looked down at his lap. “I cannot see it, and we cannot say.”

“Well, that’s good to know. Because even if you _ did _ see it, even the Old Gods wouldn’t make me take Longclaw and try and set it on fire by plunging it into my wife’s heart on the slim chance it would kill the monster,” Jon said, his voice cold as the winter snows outside. “I’d plunge in into my own chest first.”

“Likely you wouldn’t have to,” Sam said. “Valyrian steel kills the White Walkers, so it should kill the Night King.”

“The Night King’s not a White Walker, he _ makes _ White Walkers. There’s no guarantee of that,” Jon said.

“It’s at least worth a try,” Sam said.

Patting Sam on the back, Jon stood. He came around to where Bran sat. “Keep looking when you’re not watching the Army of the Dead. And make sure you take care of yourself; Father’s ghost will haunt me if I let you work yourself into illness.” He kissed the top of Bran’s head before leaving. As Jon walked out, Bran picked up another book and held it up for Samwell to take a look at. 

#

**Brienne**

_ There’s not enough time, _she thought as she watched Podrick and a collection of veteran soldiers, both from the North and elsewhere, run through fighting drills with both men and women between what appeared to be two and twelve and seventy. They were spread out on the fields east of Winterfell, with enough flat land so they could conduct drills for both large and small groups.

One of Grey Worm’s Unsullied captains was leading girls and boys in spear training. Off in the distance, she could see Lady Arya demonstrating proper archery technique to a group of girls barely her size. Finally, Podrick was leading some of the slightly more experienced troops through some techniques in how to properly use the new dragonglass battle axes they would wield in the upcoming battle.

As for her, she had been conducting plenty of practice sessions herself, but more she found herself coordinating all of the different groups to train. _ Only about a week left, likely, _ she thought to herself. _ Pretty soon, the training is going to have to stop and we’re going to have to worry about people getting into positions. _

“I appreciated the vote of confidence today, wench, but I’m surprised you didn’t have a word to say to me afterwards,” she heard from behind her.

She turned to see Jaime behind her, trying to huddle in his cloak, hood up, against the winter winds. “I might have, Ser Jaime, but I thought that might not be… appropriate given the event we were at was a tribunal,” she replied, stopping herself before she rolled her eyes at him. “Besides, you had to speak to the king afterward, correct?”

Jaime stood shoulder to shoulder with her as the green fighters continued training and his Unsullied guards took their places a few yards behind him. “I suppose.” He turned to her now. “Rhaegar’s son? How did they manage to hide that? I mean, now that I think about it, other than his coloring he does resemble his sire. Broods as much as he did too, as I remember. But unless you knew, he would appear to be Lord Stark’s son.”

“I’m guessing it’s because Lord Stark was a far better liar than you ever gave him credit for whenever you joked about him,” she replied about a smirk.

“Actually, when I think about it now, it’s not that much of a stretch,” Jaime said as he looked out over the plains. “The boy was his nephew by blood. He was the last living connection Lord Stark had to his sister. I’ve done plenty worse for my family, trust me.”

“And you would continue to do so for your family?” Brienne said.

Jaime sighed. “For my brother, likely yes. For anyone else…” he trailed off.

She wasn’t even sure about how to proceed next. In dealing with Jaime Lannister, that was a regular occurrence, but she felt she needed to say something to him. “Jaime… I never understood a man falling in love with his sister. I know we’ve had Targaryens and others marrying brother to sister, anyways… and I’m not going to pass judgement on that.”

“I can’t even begin to explain it,” Jaime said. “For so many years, it was the two of us in one group and everyone else. I loved Tyrion, obviously, but Cersei and I did everything together. And over time… that included falling in love. I knew it wasn’t proper… but I knew it also felt right. Back then, at least.” He signed at the memory, shoulders slumped. _ Gods. He looks almost more lost than when he first lost his hand, _ she thought. “So what changed… I mean, what was the thing that made you come up here?”

He stared off into the distance. “It likely started when my oldest son died in front of me and I realized I wouldn’t even be able to mourn him as a father,” he said. “Then I realized even if I could mourn him that way, I’d have to reckon with the fact that my son had become a petty, spoiled, psychotic tyrant. And part of the reason was what Cersei was as a mother and the fact that I just stood aside. Then there were the other children’s deaths, and the fact she barely even acknowledged what happened to Tommen. And finally, there was that day when she was in the map atrium and I realized that she’d become some even sicker version of what my father became at the end of his life. He was someone obsessed with power and saw his children as simple extensions of himself. All she cared about was the Iron Throne and how the new child would be a continuation of her. And I realized that she’d been warped into something totally different from what she was as a young girl, and I wanted no part of it anymore.”

“And now?” Brienne said, looming over him as she stood at his shoulder.

“Now, for once in my life, I get to actually act like a Knight of the Seven Kingdoms and defend them from a true threat, not act like some enforcer for a tyrant,” he said, smiling. “If I die in the process, at least I’ll have a good death. If I make it though, I’m headed to King’s Landing and seeing if that child is still alive. If it is, I’m taking it with me and assuming your queen doesn’t change her mind and have her dragons roast me, I’m going to see if I can make some sort of life for it.”

Brienne almost found herself placing her hand on his shoulder, but stopped herself at the last minute. “And Cersei.”

“I’m done trying to deal with her, but I’m not going to be the one who judges her. They want someone to kill her, they have the ability to do that. It’s not going to be me, but I’m not stopping them, either.”

He looked over his shoulder at her and then turned to face her. “It’s good that you made it this far, and it’s good that the Stark girls are safe,” he said sincerely. “You deserved to succeed. It’s funny how you were a lot truer follower of the knight’s code than most actual knights, myself included.” Jaime opened his arms as if unsure to hug her or shake her hand, but eventually settled on clapping her on the shoulder. “Anyway, I’ll let you get back to training. Gentlemen,” he said, nodding to the two Unsullied to follow him back to the castle.

It had been one of the strangest conversations she’d ever had with the man they called Kingslayer, Brienne reflected as she walked over to a group of teenage girls who were pairing off in sparring sessions with each other wielding spears. _ The man only called me ‘wench’ once and he never even bothered to level any insults at me. Something seemed to have changed him - hopefully for the better, for the sake of that poor child if she/he actually exists or lives. _

#

**Jon**

That evening, after a long day of meetings with his commanders and supervising the he went to his quarters in the Great Keep and knocked on the door. _ She should be there, _ he thought to himself, as the two Unsullied guarding the doorway to the hall looked impassively.

He was only mildly surprised to see Missandei open the door. “King Jon,” she said with a bow.

“Hello, Missandei. Has the queen returned?”

She nodded. “Yes, she is… dressing herself in the other room,” she said with a shy smile. “I will let her know you are here.”

She closed the door for a few moments, then opened the door again. “Her Grace will be here in just a moment,” she said, stepping out into the hallway. “Until later, Your Grace.” With that, the Naath native, wrapped up in a sensible black wool coat over her Essoi dress, took her leave.

It was not until Missandei had disappeared down the hallway that Dany opened the door and stuck her head out. To his surprise, she’d removed the braids from her hair and it fell loose around her face. “Good evening, Husband,” she said with a small smile.

“Good evening, Wife,” he replied, grinning. “It is all right for me to enter our chambers, yes?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Dany replied with a nod. “I just had a… surprise for you this evening. Come in and I’ll show you,” she said.

“Of course,” he said, entering the room. Initially, he saw no changes to their chambers - they had made little effort to make them seem like theirs because their tentative plan was to make either King’s Landing or Dragonstone their main residence - although he did see Ghost laying by the fire, as was his recent habit, and offer up a wagging tail and a _ huff _ as a greeting. “Turn around,” Dany said.

He obeyed his queen. She leaned against the doorway with a smile that seemed to reach both sides of her face. All she wore was a pair of Dothraki leather riding trousers and a painted vest, undone in the front so he could see the space between her breasts. “Does the _ Khal _ appreciate the look of the _ Khalessi?” _she said.

His jacket was off and flung behind him before he’d taken two steps toward her. He’d untucked his tunic from his trousers before he pinned her against the wall, both of his hands diving underneath the vest to knead her full breasts.

“Ahhhh,” she moaned, “I take it the _ Khal _ approves.”

“_Yessss_,” he hissed while sucking on the left side of Dany’s neck with such fierceness that there was already a red mark there. 

As Jon’s thumbs glided over her nipples, Dany reached down and unlaced first her trousers and then his. As she began to pull his tunic over his head, he reached down into her pants and rolled his fingers over her mound and nodule. With a deep groan, she pushed him back and rolled her trousers down her legs. “Do you think it’s time to ride?” she said as she stood up.

He threw his boots either which way as he stood up. “Go ahead,” he said with a grin.

She walked over to the bed and slid the vest off her shoulders, letting it glide down her back and over her backside before it hit the floor. She hesitated for a moment, and then got onto the bed on her hands and knees. “Ready,” she said.

Now it was Jon who hesitated moving forward, even though he finished the process of getting naked himself. He remembered her stories about her early time with Drogo and the Dothraki, the fear and pain of that time. “Are you sure about this?” he said. 

“It’ll be good with you,” Dany said, as she actually wiggled her backside at him, “Don’t worry. What, don’t you want to ride?” she japed.

The hardness in his groin was all the confirmation that he needed that he was ready as he crawled onto the bed on his knees behind her. It was the first time he’d ever tried to make love in that position, but he pushed himself between her legs, found the proper angle, and eased himself into her wetness.

“Ohhhh,” she cried out, appearing shocked at what she was feeling as the familiar hardness of her husband filled her from an unfamiliar angle.

He took firm hold of her by her hips and slammed into her. “You’re _ mine,” _ he said with a ferocity unfamiliar to him. 

“I am yours,” Dany laughed, “and you are mine as well, My King. Is the ride… _ ahhhh… _to your satisfaction?”

“Absolutely,” he said as he continued to buck behind her.

As their pace picked up, she felt him reach over to the back of her head with his left hand. She yelped in surprise as she felt him gather her hair in his grasp, holding it in a giant ponytail, and gently but firmly pulling her head back with it. “You wish to guide me, My King?” she laughed.

“With the greatest of care, of course My Queen… ohhhh,” he groaned.

They moved faster as the delicious tension started to build in him. “Do you need me to go faster, Jon? You should let me know… _ OH!” _she shouted as he smacked her squarely on her right buttock with the palm of his hand.

“Clear enough?” he japed.

“_C__ome on,” _she cried out in Valyrian, “_make me feel it! Kessa, kessa!” _

He laid three more light but firm smacks on her rump before she screamed “YESSSS!” and reared back into him, his lap getting soaked with her release as her entire body shuddered. He lasted only a few more thrusts before spending deep inside her.

She collapsed face-forward onto the bed, Jon falling on top of her back, holding her by the waist. “A lovely ride, my love,” Jon whispered to her.

“Yes, it was. That will be one of those good memories,” she said. Then she looked to her right and burst out laughing.

“What?” Jon said, and she pointed to the side of the bed. Ghost had his head on the bed and was looking at them with one red eye. The other eye and half of the direwolf’s face was covered with Jon’s discarded tunic.

They couldn’t stop laughing for a while after that. He was glad for the distraction, if temporary.

#

As they settled into bed and Dany got comfortable in his embrace, Jon decided to tell Dany what had been on his mind that day. “Dany, I need you to do something for me.”

She looked up at him. “Of course.”

“In the battle coming up. If I fall…”

“_No,” _ Dany spit out, nearly sitting up, “I will _ not _ hear this…”

“What we _ want _ to happen and what _ will _happen are two different things,” Jon said, laying a finger on her lips to temporarily quiet her. “I would want nothing more to survive, but you need to know my wishes otherwise. If I fall, and this castle falls, I need you to take my brother and sisters and flee this place, go somewhere safe where The Others have no reach. I need you to swear to do this.”

She took his hand away from her mouth and pinned his wrists above his head. “Listen to me, you moody Northern dragonwolf,” she scolded him. “I do promise to get your brother and sisters away from here if all fails, but _ I am not leaving you here, _understood? As a Khalessi’s place is with her Khal, so a Queen’s place is with her King. If we fall, we will fall together. But The Others will not win. Say it.”

“The Others will not win,” Jon said, more sure of himself and grateful to his new wife. “I love you, Dany.”

“I love you, Jon.” With that, they tried to get some much needed rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of notes:
> 
> 1\. I'm nicknaming this and the next two chapters "The First Long Night" because they take place in full or in part on the evening one week before the Battle of the Long Night. So much is happening I wound up turning one chapter into two separate chapters. That's also why I'm going to upload the next chapter right away, since it wound up actually getting finished before this one.  
2\. Yes, we are seeing Jaime and Brienne interact with each other for the first time here. It will certainly not be the last time that will happen, but it'll take a little more time to see how that will eventually pan out.  
3\. Even though I've got the entire story outlined, this sort of stuff is why the chapters might grow from what I have planned. For now, I'm keeping it at 46, but we'll see what happens.  
4\. Shoutout to one of my favorite authors, Longclaw_1_6, for finishing his epic ASOIAF remake An Empire of Ice and Fire and his smaller-scale GOT redo A Terrible Resolve. I'd check them out if I were you, and I hope Dreams of Spring winds up being that good.
> 
> Next up: friends becoming something more.


	21. Friends Around the Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two friends become more to each other.

21.

**Gendry**

The forge was quiet that night.

Nearly all of the dragonglass weapons that had been needed had been forged and distributed to the men. There would need to be more sent to the recently arrived Riverlanders and some of the Freefolk/Watch/House Umber members that were coming, but most of them could be equipped with existing weapons. Most of the rest of the time he and the other smiths would have before the fight would be spent making extra arrows and building or repairing armor parts for the fighters.

There had been nights where the smiths and the other workers had forged throughout the night in shifts to finish all of the weapons they needed. However, with much of their work done and the battle approaching soon, Gendry realized everyone would need to be well-rested for the task ahead.

One by one, he snuffed out the forges throughout the smithy. As usual, he would keep the one that was also shared with his room burning, so he could keep warm. _ Although Arya helped out with that as well… _

“Another day of work done?” a familiar female voice whispered from behind.

He whirled around, almost losing balance in his surprise. Arya was there, all but covered up in a black hooded cloak that reached down to her ankles. The hood covered much of her upper face from view. She also was carrying what seemed to be a canvas bundle or pack on her back.

“Seven Hells, Arry, what’s that about?” he whispered to her.

“Everything tucked away for the night? Good, let’s get into your room,” Arya said as she swept past him and through his door. Gendry fumbled around for a moment as he made sure all of the tools were put up and the forges were out.

He was about to go into his room when Arya stuck her head out the doorway and held her hand up. “Wait… errrm… give me a second, would you?” For some reason, she seemed totally on edge, unnerved. “I’ll let you know when to come in, all right?”

“Uh, sure, Arry…”

“Great! Thanks.” She eased the door closed.

He sat on the edge of the one warm forge, wondering exactly what to do as he made sure there was enough wood and coals inside to keep the heat up for the rest of the night. There’d never been an instance when a girl kept him from entering his own sleeping chamber. For that matter, most times in his life there was no sleeping chamber to be had – instead, there was either the corner of a shop, a nook in a cave, or some stables.

Gendry admitted to himself that the past couple of weeks had been the best time of his life, certainly from a sleeping standpoint. Every early morning, he woke up with his arms around Arya, who somehow sensed the beginning of daybreak from the light inching through the cracks in the doorway and was up and out the door before more visitors arrived. There was always the feeling of her nestled in his arms, how she curved to him, the scent of her hair reminiscent of pines and the forests.

It was so much more than he could have hoped for, so much more than a bastard could expect, that he dared not do anything to disturb it. There had been that first night when he was embarrassed to have felt his member poking underneath his trousers at her rear, but he was assured when she said nothing about it the next night or afterward. After that, there was a hand brushing her face as she slept, and the kisses goodnight that lingered. There was that one wonderful evening two nights back when his hand had made its way under her tunic to rub her bare back after she’d claimed to have overexerted herself training that day. He’d barely been able to breathe the whole time, and how he’d kept his hands from shaking he had no idea.

_ Davos said I’d have to get on with things if I wanted to be with her, _ he thought. _ But I don’t want to do or say something stupid and push her away from me. That happened before after I turned down being part of her family and then I didn’t see her for four years. I’d do anything to have that not happen… _

Arya poked her head out from behind the door. There was a soft smile on her face, and it looked like she’d taken off her cloak. “You can come in now,” Arya said.

He stepped inside and closed the door. She’d removed what seemed to be all of the furs, blankets, and bundles acting as pillows from his cot, laid them out on the dirt floor in front of the open hearth, and spread another load of odd furs and blankets on top of them. She’d hung a tea kettle above the hearth fire using a cooking stand, and there was a clay cup next to the hearth. “What’s this?” Gendry asked.

“Your bed is a little cramped and I wanted to see if we could spread out a little,” she said. She uncorked a large, dark brown bottle with her teeth and handed it to him. “Drink up; I know I have,” she said, cackling.

He took a taste. It was a dark but sweet taste, and he could immediately sense the alcohol behind it. “What is this?” Gendry asked.

“Mead,” she said. “They make it out of honey…”

“I’ve heard of it at least,” he corrected her, trying and managing to keep the irritation out of his voice. “Never drank it though, mind.” He took another couple of sips.

“This batch likely came from the beehives of the Reach or Dorne. Come on, then.” She swiped the bottle from him and took a long few drinks herself. “I’m intending us to finish that off before we’re done,” she said, handing it back.

“Done with what?” he said as he took a longer drink from the bottle. He’d been shaking a bit when he’d come into the room, but he thought the mead had already started to calm him down.

_ Something’s going on._ He saw Arya’s sword belt laid out onto the cloak beside the furs and blankets, Needle and Catspaw in their sheaths. Arya had unbuttoned her fur-trimmed black leather jacket, and he could see the linen shirt underneath, while also wearing her typical brown leather trousers and boots.

“Just a second; I’m going to need that,” Arya said, taking the bottle again and letting another couple deep swallows fall down her throat. He noticed _ her _ hand, the one holding the bottle, was shaking as well, so she even used her other hand to steady it before finishing and handing it back to Gendry, not quite half-empty.

“For what?” he said. He took one more drink of it before setting it down on his work bench.

Arya walked over to the bench and put the cork back in the bottle’s neck. She then made her way back to him as he stood next to the fur and blanket pile. Her grey eyes were wide, pupils dilated in the dark, and her breathing was ragged to his ears even though he didn’t notice himself doing the same. She took his right hand in both of hers and held it for a moment, waiting for the shaking in her hands to subside. Staring straight up at him, half defiant, half uncertain, she said, “You did tell me you’ve made love to three different women, right?”

“Yeah,” Gendry managed to choke out.

She stood up on tiptoes, letting go of his hand to entwine her arms around the back of his neck. Still staring directly into his eyes, she whispered, “I’m going to be the fourth.” And then she kissed him.

It was a wilder, more unrestrained kiss than they’d ever shared. Her open mouth glided across his own, and then he felt the girl’s tongue slide straight through his own lips and probe inside. It felt so wonderful, alive in his mouth, that he immediately started to use his own tongue to playfully wrestle with it, tasting her own taste in his mouth.

Arya broke it off and began draping kisses all over the left side of his neck, her tongue leaving a trail of wetness from his collarbone to just behind his ear, and he involuntarily shivered at the feeling. He wrapped her up in his own arms, feeling her legs brush against his crotch as he lifted her, and his member was already iron-hard and straining against his own trousers.

He realized that she’d let go of his neck and had unbuttoned the brown leather jerkin he was wearing, and was now trying to ease it off his shoulders. He let her down on the ground and allowed her to, then she slid out of her jacket and flung it over against a nearby wall. “Come on, get the rest of it off,” she huffed.

“Arry,” he whispered. “Are…”

“I’m just warning you I’ve never done any of this before, so I’m likely to be rubbish at it,” she said in a rush.

Gendry’s eyes widened. “Oh, Arry. Are you sure? …you’re a maid… and…”

“Don’t give me any of that shit about who you are and who I am, Gendry!” she hissed at him. “I’m not ‘giving up’ anything, I’m just having sex for the first time, is all.” She hopped from one foot to another as she pulled off her boots and came to stand on the furs. “I figured since we might be dead in a week, I’d find out if there’s anything to it or not. Least I’d know for sure.”

It was almost as if he couldn’t breathe in deeply enough. “Arry, I…”

“And you’re the only one around here I’d feel safe enough to do this with,” she said as she started to untuck her shirt from her pants. Her face fell for a moment as she looked up at him. “You don’t want me?”

He’d been spending the past couple of weeks avoiding saying anything or doing anything that would drive her away from him, but he realized now that he now needed to say something to keep her by his side.

_ I love this woman, _ Gendry realized with absolute clarity. _ All I want to do is to make her happy and be with her the rest of my days, and I don’t care what that looks like. _

He tried to tell her this, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, “I want you,” came out, his voice quivering.

She went back to him and untucked his shirt from his pants. Arya slid her hands up his now bare stomach and chest as he lifted his shirt over his head. “All right,” she said as kissed the center of his chest, burying her nose in the nest of hair along his breastbone.

After a few more kisses, Arya moved back and Gendry bent down and started to pull off both of his boots. Setting them off to the side, he started to undo the laces on his trousers as he stood up straight to see Arya stepping out of her own trousers.

She seemed smaller but no less fierce completely naked. There were new details to her he now noticed. Her shoulders were strong, well-muscled, and her thighs and calves were bulging with rounded muscles underneath ivory skin. He was surprised to see the rows of muscles down her belly, as prominent as most fit men he’d seen, and the sight strangely excited him. He’d seen her water dancing, as she called it, out on the training grounds as she practiced with Brienne and the younger girls, and now he saw how she was able to leap and move so easily. Her chest was lean with two small but well-shaped breasts with light pink nipples.

“You getting out of those pants, bull?” she teasingly taunted him, hands on her hips. “Otherwise this won’t be going far.”

He successfully wrestled with the laces and eased his own trousers down. As he got up, he heard a sharp intake of breath from Arya as she stared at him in the nude. After a moment’s hesitation, she walked over to him, and he groaned as she guided her hand to his member, softly stroking it with her palm. “Gods, you’re strong,” she whispered.

He lifted her up from the floor – _ Seven Hells, her _ arse _ is even muscled _– so that they could kiss again. She not only wrapped her arms around her neck, but he felt her bare legs clenching his sides as they continued to kiss. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered.

“Are you kidding, bull? Me?” she cackled. “You know they used to call me Arya Horseface as a child.”

“You’re not a child now, Arya Stark. You’re a woman,” he said, kissing her neck. “And I want you, Gods help me.”

“You’re japing.”

_ Unbelievable. Is she blind? _ “Did it _ feel _ like I was japing?” Her eyes widened again with what seemed like… _ fear? _

He eased down onto his knees as she kept hold of him. He lifted the top layer of furs and blankets away and laid her down on top of the others. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said.

“You _ won’t, _stupid,” Arya chuckled. She arched her back as she lay down. “Look at me – I’ve been stabbed more than once, beaten, knocked unconscious… this is going to be nothing compared to that.” She guided his hand to two light pink scar ridges on the right side of her stomach, and some other slashes along her right side and arm. “See?”

His fingertips brushed against the two scars on her stomach. “What happened?”

“It was in Braavos when I was training to be one of the Faceless Men. This bitch stabbed me after I didn’t do what they wanted me to,” she said, scowling. “She’s dead now, thanks to me.”

Her face went slack as he leaned down and kissed the scar, tracing it with his lips. “W…what are _ you _ doing?”

“It’s you,” he said between kisses, “and it’s part of you.”

He thought she had a hint of a grin as she took his chin in her hand. “Come on, then.” He felt her spreading her legs on either side of him, feet on the floor and knees upward.

Gendry followed her lead and inched up her body, bracing himself above her on his knees and one hand while holding himself in his other hand, so hard now it almost ached. His gaze kept jumping between her eyes boring into him and the dark tuft of hair over her mound and center. Idly, he noticed two smaller wisps of dark hair tucked into her armpits as she leaned back.

He paused there for a moment, the light from the forge turned hearth spilling over both of them. “Are you sure about this?” Gendry asked.

“Let’s get on with it,” she said, eyes rolled in frustration. She sat up and took hold of the head of his cock and led it to her opening. With her other hand, she reached back and grabbed onto his right buttock. “C’mon,” she said, pulling him toward her.

Then there was nothing else for him than the sensation of sliding into her, the tight and wet walls of her pussy engulfing him as he pushed forward and a low moan escaped his throat, well out of his control. He braced himself with both hands, scared of smothering her underneath him as he pushed inside until he was fully sheathed.

Gendry froze for a second after he heard a whispered, stunned, “Seven Hells,” underneath him. “You all right?” he asked even before he looked down at her.

Arya’s eyes were wide as saucers, her mouth in a stunned ‘oh’ expression as she wrapped an arm around his neck again. “I’m… just getting used to things,” she whispered. She put her hand on the small of his back. “Here… go… a little slower. There, that’s it.”

He followed her direction, moving at her pace as she pulled his neck down to her so she could kiss him on the mouth again for a few moments before breaking off and kissing where his chest met his neck. All the while, he lost himself in the sensation of the gliding friction between them, slowly back and forth inside her, as the heat began to build up between them.

“Arry, I…” he began, but then he felt something building in him, a surge of pleasure that built up into a wave of spasms from his center. “Oh, no… Oh!”

With one more thrust, he froze as he felt his member twitching uncontrollably inside her, his seed spurting out. Horrified, he looked down at her. “Arry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean…”

She seemed out of breath, much of her chestnut hair escaping its ponytail and flying free around her head. Arya closed her eyes for a moment, then he felt her shiver from her shoulders down. “Gods, that feels so _ warm_,” she chuckled, and he realized that she meant his seed.

“I didn’t…”

She leaned up and to his surprise, kissed him on the tip of his nose. “You’ve not done this for a while, have you?” He shook his head. “It’s all right. Can you move, Gendry?”

He immediately pulled out and moved over her left leg so he could roll over on his right side, facing her. She sat up and with one hand pulled out her hair tie to let her tresses hang free and looked down as she used the other to examine herself between her legs.

Gendry reached over to touch her shoulder. “Arya, are you all right?” he said, finally catching his breath.

He was surprised to hear her laugh. “Men have no idea sometimes,” she said. “The old tales say women are always supposed to bleed whenever they do it for the first time, but that’s not true. It didn’t even hurt, but it was… a strange feeling at first.” She held up the hand she’d been using to explore herself. “See, nothing. Plenty of _ your _ stuff, though,” she cackled. “Speaking of which…” 

She sprung up and strolled to the hearth naked, taking the kettle from above the fire and pouring steaming water into the mug, then steeping what appeared to be a teabag in the cup. “Moon tea,” she said. “I don’t think it would be sensible to get pregnant before battling The Others, the dead, whatever.”

“Or to give you a bastard without a family name,” Gendry said, nodding.

“Don’t worry; it’s all right,” Arya said softly, looking down as she seemed to realize what he feared. She took a couple of sips from the cup, apparently not minding the steaming water, before setting it down next to where her head had laid. Then she strolled back to his work bench, retrieving the bottle of mead and uncorking it again. She took another swallow before feeling his eyes on him and looking over her shoulder to see him sitting up and staring at her, blue eyes blazing even in the low firelight. “What?”

“You’ve got the most glorious backside that I’ve ever seen in my life,” he whispered, totally in awe of her toned and rounded buttocks.

She couldn’t stop laughing at that. “You _ are _ a stupid bull.”

“You think I don’t speak the truth?” he said, grinning.

“Maybe _ your _ truth. Anyway.” She turned and walked back to bed. _ Her front’s glorious, too, _ he thought. She eased down onto her side, facing him, and stroked his shoulder. “Anyway, you are sweet, and I have to believe you’re… attracted to me.”

_ I love you, _he thought, but could only nod and say, “And you to me?”

“I seem to be fond of handsome men with massive shoulders, chest, and arms, powerful legs.” She leaned over and glanced behind him, palm gliding over his backside. “I guess your butt’s cute, as well,” she laughed.

“Making moony eyes at a moon…”

“Don’t fucking say it,” Arya squealed, rising up and smacking him in the shoulder. This prompted Gendry to wrestle her and pin her to the ground, sneaking his hands underneath her armpits and tickling her.

“Aaaagh,” she yelled. Somehow, she snuck out from underneath him and got him into a chokehold from behind, while managing to stick a wet finger inside his ear. Yelping himself, he reached behind him and pulled her off his back. Then he rolled onto his back and pulled her, squirming, on top of him, both of them panting.

“I like this way of wrestling, to be honest,” Gendry joked.

“Sorry about earlier,” she whispered.

That caught him by surprise. “Wait, what?”

“I think I was nervous and we rushed through things the first time. Maybe we should… relax, take our time. We’ve got all night, right?” She reached over and took another drink of mead, handing the bottle to him. “I’m not sleeping, really.”

“All right,” Gendry said after he’d taken another drink and set the bottle aside. “Tell me what… you think you might like.”

She slid to the floor and they laid on their sides, staring at each other in the firelight. “I like it when you touch me,” she whispered. “You’d think your hands would be so rough with the work you do, and they are… but they feel good to me.”

“Can I touch you now?”

“Sure,” she said finally.

He slid his hands up and down her side as he drew her in for a kiss. Their mouths kept playing, jousting with their tongues for a few minutes, as he pulled her close to him and cupped her bottom with one hand. She idly played with the hair on his head and traced the lines of the muscles in his back.

After a bit, he slid down until his face was parallel to her breasts. With one hand, he brushed over one of them, used his thumb to caress it. He then leaned down and took the nipple of the other one in his mouth, and he heard her stop breathing for a moment as he suckled it for a few moments.

“I hate to tell you, you’re not getting any milk out of that,” she said.

He stopped as he cracked up laughing. “That wasn’t what I was trying to do. I just liked doing it. Did you like it?”

“I think so,” she said, looking away. “Keep doing it.”

He did, and after a while, he eased his hand down between her legs. The hair down there felt softer than he expected, and he moved two of his fingers inside her. After exploring her passage, he left them glide over the bud at the top of her flower.

“Ahhh… wait. Do that again,” she breathed more than spoke.

So, without rush, he began to move his fingers over her bud, as she pressed herself closer to him as she shivered. “Oh, oh,” she said, then placed her hand over his. “Wait.”

He stopped immediately, bringing the hand he’d been using back to her hip. “Just a second.” She lay on her back, using one of Gendry’s arms as a pillow as he put it around her shoulders. Then, to his surprise, she reached down and touched herself down there in slow, circular strokes. “Gendry? Can you… su…kiss me there?” she stuttered.

Gendry leaned over and took her left nipple in his mouth as he played with her other one with his left hand. “Like this?” he said between kisses.

“Yes,” she croaked as she sped up her own caresses.

They lay there for a while, Gendry patiently cradling her, until she started twitching and spreading her legs out, toes curling, as her fingers sped over her nodule. “Oh…oh,” she cried out, ducking her head into Gendry’s shoulder, as jerking spasms left her trembling against him. “What in Seven Hells was that?” she could barely get out, muffled by Gendry’s body.

“I think that was you _ coming_, Arry,” he said, smiling down at her.

“_That’s _ what it feels like when you come? Gods.” She rolled over and felt between his legs, to confirm that he was hard again. “Good, stay there.”

She rolled him on his back and swung a leg over his hips. Before he realized what was going on, she lowered herself onto him, her wetness now letting him slide into her with ease. Arya took both sides of his face into her hands and pointed him up to her. “Look at me.”

He gazed up at her. Her grey eyes locked with his, pinning him to the ground. Her hair was a frazzled mess and she appeared half drunk with mead or sex or some combination of both. _ She’s beautiful, _ he thought as she now started to ride him, sitting on her legs and his lap.

“Like riding a horse. Sort of,” she cackled as she sped up. “Kiss them for me, please.”

Gendry realized what she meant and latched on to her right breast while still looking up at her. They had their arms wrapped around each other and were making barely any attempt to keep quiet.

He watched with fascination as Arya’s ivory skin began to flush a clear pink from her forehead down to her face and the upper part of her chest. As he listened to her heartbeat against her chest, he could also tell she was starting to breathe deeper and tense up in her shoulders and back as she continued to move. “Keep looking at me; I want to see your eyes.”

He did. Her eyes filled with something that seemed like wonder as she leaned into him, rode his strength with her own as she nipped at his neck with her teeth. Then, she sat back up as he continued to suckle her. “Ohhhhhhh,” she cried out as he felt her passage clenching him, a pulsing embrace. It was too much for him to take and he spent with a series of intense spasms. He kept himself quiet with her breast.

She held his head in her hands, still on top. “That was _ wonderful,”_ she said, unable to catch her breath.

_ I love you, _ he wanted to say, but the words still wouldn’t come to him. Instead, he looked up at her and said, “This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

She looked down at him and it looked like there were tears forming in the corners of her eyes. “Gendry, I… I know,” she said, nodding, then leaned down and kissed him.

#

“Gods, I’ve got no idea why we weren’t doing this from the first night you were here,” Arya laughed.

They were laying down next to each other, on their backs and holding hands as they’d pulled the furs over themselves. “It’s all right, we’re here now.” He looked over at her. “You’ll be here again, right?”

“Tomorrow night, for sure,” she said, turning to him. “We might not stay up all night, though.”

“I don’t know, it’s been an interesting night,” Gendry said as he rolled over to her.

Arya looked down as she felt him, hard again, against her leg. “I think you’re ready again. Well, you are Robert Baratheon’s son.”

“So?”

“So,” she gasped at him, “you never heard all the rumors about him? How… he had an endless appetite for women?”

“I’m not him,” he said. “There’s nobody else but you. And you don’t look like a horse.” He traced a line down from the top of her forehead to the tip of her nose. “You’re a wolf.” With a yelp of surprise from Arya, Gendry rolled on top of her, pinning her arms above her head. “A very pretty wolf, in truth.” _ My wolf, _ he thought but dared not say. 

He slid into her with no preliminaries, the furs sliding off their bodies as he heard an “oh” below him. Gendry looked down to see Arya’s expression hover somewhere between shock and exhilaration. “Everything all night?” he asked, unsure of his next move. 

She looked straight at him. “I’m wondering if you really are a bull or not,” she said with a crooked grin.

That drove the last bit of restraint from him. He drove his hips into her, the slick friction building up between them as he covered her with his own body. She started to move her own hips to match his rhythm, wrapping her legs around his waist and digging her heels into the small of his back.

“Getting soft on me, Bull?” she catcalled to him, which only spurred him on more.

She reached up and kissed him, then pulled his head down to meet her gaze. “I want to feel it,” she gasped. “Let me feel how bad you want this; you’re not going to break me in two.”

“There’s no tougher woman than you.”

“Then show me… uhhh,” she said, as he strained above her. “Yes, just like that… harder… harder…” She started to tense up in her arms and shoulders, and her legs clung to him as he felt the spasms pulse through her passage and around him. “There, there… _ fucking Gods! _ Oh!” she howled as the waves of pleasure overtook her.

_ “Arry,” _he groaned as his entire body tensed except his member, twitching with its release deep inside her. It took several moments before he finally stopped coming, and started to withdraw from inside her.

“No,” she said, legs and arms keeping him in place as he covered her. “Stay there for a bit. Please.” Arya kissed him deeply for a long moment, then buried her face into his neck. He did the same and they lay there for a long time, not feeling the cold around them even uncovered. The only thing he could think was _ this is the most wonderful night of my life. _

#

He opened his eyes to see the morning sun creeping in through the bottom of his door. Arya was already up and dressed, just fastening the tie to her cloak. “Morning, Bull,” she said.

“Mornin’, Arry.” He looked around. “Off again?”

“Got another day of training boys and girls before the big battle,” she said. She walked over to him and kneeled next to him.

“Sure you can’t stay?”

“I wish I could… uhhh,” she grunted as her finger drew a line down his naked chest, “but I have to go. See you tonight, though.”

“Bring any more mead?”

“If I can find it,” she laughed. She leaned down and kissed him again on the mouth, her tongue flicking into his mouth for the briefest of moments. “See you then, Bull.”

“See you, Arry.”

She slipped through the door, leaving him alone with his thoughts. _ We’re not friends anymore – well, not _ just _ friends anymore. Does this mean we’re lovers? We didn’t say that we loved each other, did we? Or did we tell each other, but not with words? _

He wasn’t sure, but he did realize two things. One, he was willing to do anything to keep her by his side, and that meant agreeing to keeping whatever they had together on her terms. Two, he realized with absolute certainty that she could get him to do anything for her, including killing for her or dying for her. He knew he would do either without question. _ That has to be some form of love, _ he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this definitely wound up being its own thing.
> 
> I have to say that I take this relationship really seriously, and it winds up being one of the most interesting ones in the GOT canon. The story of friends evolving into lovers has always fascinated me, and this is one of the prime examples of this. Arya fears not being her own person and is trying to remember what that person is like after all of the damage and the trauma, but she realizes there's always been one person that has been there for her without conditions. For her, she's worried this is all too good to be true and, like everything else she's loved, about to be taken away from her at any moment. Gendry is absolutely in love with her, but his bastard thinking keeps telling him that he's getting something that he doesn't quite deserve or is above his pay grade.
> 
> If you've never commented before, I'd really love to hear your feedback on this chapter. I really tried to get a good balance of romance, humor, and realism while being respectful of the two characters in question. I truly hope this is a chapter you enjoy if you read this.
> 
> Also, counting chapters and chapter sections to come but not yet published, I’ve gone over the 100,000 word mark for this project. Heady stuff.


	22. The Woodsman and the Red Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lady of Winterfell makes an unexpected connection. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there's probably only a few chapters left until the start of the Battle of the Long Night, so we're going to see how Sansa finds out some more about this mysterious Northern knight and what his story is. Hope you enjoy.

22.

**Sansa**

After the tribunal for Ser Jaime, Sansa made sure that the Riverlanders and her uncle were in their quarters. Edmure had managed to find a section in the regular guest house, but some of the other nobles were making do with rooms in the First Keep, with a makeshift temporary wood roof and hastily rebuilt walls with leftover rubble and mortar. _ It’s a disgrace that it’s been allowed to fall into such ruin, but perhaps not a surprise, _ she thought to herself as she eyed the run-down structure. _ This is probably the first building on these grounds, and to let it get so wretched… if we actually survive this, just supervising the repairs on everything is going to keep me quite busy, I think. _

She also made the arrangements for her aunt, cousin, and the other families of those Riverlanders to be evacuated to White Harbor and then Dragonstone starting the next morning. _ Thank the Gods they came when they did, _ she thought. _ Pretty soon, it will be too late to get anyone from out of here in time to escape the dead. _

Thanks to the evacuations, she estimated that there would only be about a couple dozen people at most who would not be actively fighting the Others when the time came, which included herself, Lords Varys and Tyrion, and Missandei. They would await the outcome of things in the Great Keep. There had been thoughts of perhaps going to the family crypts for safety, but Sansa then remembered they were fighting an enemy that was able to reanimate the dead and realized that might be a potential problem. She’d ordered the crypts barred and sealed off to help prevent her and her family having to dispatch reanimated ancestors.

After the new Riverlands guests were sorted out, Sansa then returned to her solar – although it likely would be her father’s solar in her own mind for the remainder of her days – where she found Missandei at one of two writing desks they had pushed together, looking over some papers. “Apologies, My Lady,” Missandei said, “I was reviewing the estimates on our grain and foodstuffs storage.” She was trying to keep her shivering down by huddling into a long black woolen coat she’d gotten from Sansa.

“Nothing to apologize for – for as many people who are here right now, there needs to be more than one set of eyes on all of this. If there was a bigger army hosted at Winterfell than this one, I don’t recall reading it in the histories,” Sansa said as she sat down across from her.

Sansa’s fast friendship with Missandei had been one of the surprises of the past couple weeks. One was a highborn noble native to the North, and the other had been taken in chains from her native Naath to servitude in Slaver’s Bay. Both women, however, were highly diplomatic, pragmatic, and thorough in their characters, and both were well suited to making sure everyone was fed and the wagons arrived and left Winterfell on time. In what spare time they did have, Sansa listened, fascinated, at Missandei’s stories of living in Meereen and serving Daenerys and also received a crash course in useful phrases in Valyrian and other Essoi languages. In return, Sansa made sure Missandei had proper outerwear for the Winterfell cold and showed her some of her sewing techniques.

“The Queen is now my family,” Sansa had said to her shortly after Jon and Daenerys had married. “I know how important you are to her, and how I value your service not just to her, but to all of us. Besides, through you, I can get to know my new goodsister better.”

_ The numbers are better than they have a right to be, _ Sansa thought as they reviewed them together. _ We can keep this many people fed, but only for a little while… but in a week, at best a good portion of those will be dead and we will be headed south… or we’ll _ all _ be dead with no need to eat and marching south regardless to recruit more for the Night King’s army. _

It was then that there was a knock on the door of the solar. One of the Unsullied guarding the door opened it. “A message for the Lady Sansa,” he grunted out.

A young, ragged blond-haired boy of about four and ten that Sansa recognized as one of the scouts from House Flint of the Mountains walked in and handed Sansa a message. “M’lady,” he said, bowing deeply before leaving the room while trying to avoid scurrying from it.

Sansa read the note:

_ My Lady Sansa, _

_ I would be honored, if you are not detained by your duties as Lady of Winterfell, to come to our encampment on the Wolfswood for our meal this evening. Our recent hunting has proven to be fruitful and there would be plenty of items to choose from. _

_ Regards, _

_ Ser Joren Snow _

“What is it?” Missandei said.

Sansa folded up the note. “I’ve apparently been invited to dinner by a knight. Ser Joren Snow.”

“He would be… a noble bastard from the North, correct? But not of House Stark.”

“Yes, from the family of House Flint of the Mountains. There’s more than one House Flint in the North,” she explained.

“Will you accept the invitation?”

“Honestly, it would be a nice change of pace to get from behind these walls,” Sansa said. “Did you want to come along?”

“You’re so kind, but thank you no,” Missandei said. “I have plans to meet with… Grey Worm after he is finished with his duties for the day.”

She had to smile at that. For Sansa, the relationship between Missandei and the Unsullied commander was fascinating. Whenever she talked with her, the affection toward Grey Worm was obvious, but how a eunuch romanced a woman… Sansa had no idea how that worked, and certainly didn’t want to offend Missandei with any probing questions. “That’s perfectly alright. I hope you enjoy yourself.”

“You were looking for a chaperone, My Lady?” Missandei joked, her chocolate eyes widening as she tried to casually arrange some papers.

“No, I don’t think I’d need _ that,”_ Sansa replied. “I’m a twice-married, once annulled and once self-widowed woman, Missandei. My virtue is not something that requires any particular protection.”

Missandei’s only comment on that statement was a shy smile and nod. “Well, I hope you have a good meal tonight.”

“Thank you, Missandei. Hope your evening goes well too.”

#

It was a rare occasion that Sansa would ride into the Wolfswood with her father and brothers. She never went hunting, of course, but there would be the occasional horseback ride with her father into the woods. She was not at accomplished at horsemanship as her family – she frankly rated Arya the best among her siblings – but she was able to keep up with her lord father as he pointed out all of the different types of trees like the ironwoods, native plants good for eating or herbs, and mushrooms of different types, from edible to poisonous ones.

On an agreeable brown mare, Sansa picked her way through the stumps of recently cleared trees on the eastern edge of the Wolfswood until she was surrounded by numerous pines and towering ironwoods and oaks reaching for the sky. Even with most of the leaves of the oaks now missing as winter was in earnest in the North, she could barely see the sky and the dying western sun looking up. As she drew her wolf’s fur grey cloak around herself and adjusted the hood, she felt grateful that the trees were sheltering her from the worst of the winter winds.

Near the edge of the treeline, she saw a rough trail in the snow and mud on the ground, stirred up from foot and hoof prints alike, and a single torch on a stick pounded into the snow to point out the start of the path. Picking her way through the branches and trunks of the massed trees, she continued down the path, the occasional torch in the ground lighting the way.

After making her way through about a few hundred yards of thick woods, she came upon a small clearing, maybe a little more than a few hundred square yards in size. The only items she could see there were a fire being attended to by one of the woodsman of House Flint. Some fallen logs were gathered in a wide circle around the fire, and off to the side there was a hitching post for some horses. Otherwise, she saw no signs of an encampment.

“Excuse me, sir, do you know where Ser Joren is?”

“Yes, ma’am… My Lady, apologies,” the firetender said as he turned around and bowed in a single motion. It was the young man who had passed along the note to Sansa earlier in the day.

“Is Ser Joren available? You can tell him the Lady of Winterfell is accepting his invitation,” she said as mildly as she could.

“Of course, M’lady.” He ran over to the edge of the clearing and looked… _ up? What was he playing at? _ “Ser Joren, we’ve got a visitor.”

To Sansa’s shock, she first saw a rope ladder and a regular rope fall down to the sky right in front of the boy. As she looked up, she saw that someone had constructed a wooden platform near the top of an ironwood that was fastened around its trunk and braced with wooden planks underneath nailed to the trunk. There was a single square-shaped hole in one section of the platform where the ladder and rope were attached.

Her breath caught in her throat as she saw a figure that at first seemed to just fall from the trap door, but then she saw that he’d grabbed hold of the rope with his hands and that it was also looped around his legs. In that fashion, he slid down the rope until his feet managed to touch the ground. _ I hope he has sturdy enough mittens for that, _ Sansa idly thought.

Ser Joren looked up at the mounted lady in total surprise. “Lady Sansa… it’s a pleasure that you’re here. Honestly, I was not expecting you to come.”

“Ser Joren, pray tell why not?” she japed. “There are ever decreasing opportunities for recreation as The Others approach and it can get a bit… _ overwhelming _being behind castle walls. I never considered myself to be a woman of the outdoors – that would be my sister more than me – but I appreciated the invitation, Ser.”

A grin had been creeping across the normally somber knight’s face as she talked, but he turned as he saw some of his men coming into the clearing hauling some large animal carcasses across their backs. “Ah, good, dinner is imminent,” he said. Turning to Sansa, he said, “If you’ll be patient, My Lady, we will be feasting soon enough. May I offer you ale while we wait?”

“That would be lovely,” Sansa said as Ser Joren helped her dismount from her horse.

#

Roast moose and venison were on the menu for the evening, with the carcasses hanging over the now enlarged and roaring fire. The amateur woodsmen chefs were reaching over to carve off pieces from each of the carcasses for serving on wood plates, covered in herbs little-known outside the North for an earthy, salty bite. Over a smaller fire, a large iron cauldron contained a mushroom and onion soup with sage and thyme seasoning that reminded Sansa of a few of Old Nan’s broths. With only knives and forks, she was compelled to sip directly from the wooden bowl.

“My apologies for the… lack of tools around here, My Lady,” Ser Joren said after he took a sip from his own bowl. “We remembered our axes, saws and hammers but seem to have misplaced spoons.”

“It’s not a difficulty, Ser Joren,” she said. “And the soup and roast is wonderful, thank you.”

“Can I beg your pardon for our Northern manners, My Lady?” said Roster, the young man who’d delivered the note to Sansa. “We’re trying to mind ourselves with highborn company.”

“My mother grew up in the southren lands, the Riverlands, but I’m of the North myself, Roster,” Sansa replied. “Living with my family in the North, especially with my younger sister, exposed me to… plenty of informality.”

“Of course, M’lady,” Roster responded.

Sansa turned to the right to face Ser Joren, who sat next to her on one of the fallen trees while slicing up a venison steak on his plate. “Ser Joren, how go your plans for the battle?”

Nodding, he set aside his plate as he stood up and selected a long stick from the woodpile away from the fire. He used it to draw in the ash-stained snow on the ground, away from right near the fire. “Winterfell,” he said, drawing a rough polygon representing the castle. He drew three egg shapes around the castle, with the broader bottom end facing north. “Our defensive perimeters.” He then drew a long line from nearly due north from the battlements to a long curve around the west of the egg shape. “And these are where we watch in the Wolfswood.

“From here to here,” he continued, pointing at both ends of the long, curving line, “we have set up tinderboxes next to trees, covered so that snow or other moisture does not get to them, and a small portion of flammable pitch on the wood to allow for fast burning. When we see the Army of the Dead coming through the forest, we will signal their arrival to you, set the tinderboxes afire, and then make our way back to our lines.”

Sansa set her own soup aside gingerly and rose to her feet, selecting a stick for herself. Making her way toward Joren’s snow/ash drawing, she carved two small marks in the farthest perimeter line facing west. “This is where we will have the… gate, whatever you want to call it,” Sansa said. “They will keep it open for a few minutes to allow for you to enter our lines, but we will have to close it by the time The Others are in view. Do all of your men have mounts?”

“We do, and in good condition,” Joren said.

“Very well,” Sansa nodded. “The second your men set those fires, they need to ride for that opening as fast as those horses will carry them. Once the openings are sealed, there is no intention for us to unseal them. You will be on the outside, on your own. Understood?”

“Understood, My Lady. Our horses will need to be swift, then.”

#

After the feast was cleaned up and the fire inside the log ring extinguished, Ser Joren’s men started to scatter toward their own camps and lookouts. “We’re stretched pretty thin across our section of the Wolfswood – two people for every hundred yards,” he said. “Lord Howland has lent some of his men to mine to make sure we cover the entire perimeter. However, I’m thinking with as big as some of those dead mammoths and giants are, it’s going to be difficult for them to hide from us.”

“Indeed,” Sansa replied, looking curiously around at the empty clearing.

“My Lady, I know it’s beginning to get late,” Ser Joren said, taking a short bow. “Would you require an escort back to the castle before it gets any later?”

“Errm…” Sansa wasn’t sure how to respond at first, but then looked above at the strange platform in the ironwood tree above them. “Could I sit and talk with you for a moment? I’ve never seen a platform like that before.”

_ That _ brought the Northern knight up short, and at first he moved as if he wanted to walk somewhere but didn’t have an idea what direction to go. “Ahhh… sure, of course, My Lady,” he finally said. “The rope ladder would be the best for you, I’d think.”

They walked toward the ladder, but it appeared if Joren was unsure whether he or Sansa should make their way up the ladder first. “Something the matter, Ser?”

“Apologies, My Lady, but I would normally follow you up the ladder to help catch you if you made a misstep, but you happen to be wearing a very lovely dress…” his voice trailed off as Sansa thought she could see the slightest hint of blush on his cheeks as he stared down at the ground.

“Ah… I see,” Sansa said, feeling the warmth spread through her own cheeks as she realized what he was thinking. “Thank you for your concern about my… modesty, Ser Joren, but I’m wearing some woolen leggings underneath all this froofery. As warm as this dress is, winter requires extra protection from the cold.”

“Ahhh, then… after you, My Lady,” a clearly relieved Ser Joren said.

#

It wasn’t as graceful as Arya might have managed or Bran would have before his accident, but Sansa managed to navigate the rope ladder to the top of the platform and the shelter on top of it. “These aren’t the fanciest of tents, but they do well under the weather.”

She looked around inside. There was an iron brazier in the middle of the floor, an extra supply of wood nearby, with an iron screen around it to prevent any embers from escaping. The floor around the brazier was covered in a leather-like material, the same that made up the walls of the tent. Except for a chest, the only other items in the room were two sheets of canvas strung up to poles on opposite sides of the tent.

Sansa unfastened some ties and opened what was a window flap on the tent, facing to the west. “What is this tent made out of?” she asked.

“Sealskin hides,” Joren said. “We get them in trade from the Flints of Flint’s Finger. They wind up being good insulation from the cold, and helps keep the embers from setting this place afire.” He pointed to the canvas sheets and showed Sansa the furs they contained. “Hammocks. Personally, it seems that sleeping off the cold floor helps keep you warm, too.” As he saw Sansa sit down on the floor cross-legged next to the brazier, he said, “My Lady, apologies for the lack of proper furniture…”

“As I said before, Ser Joren, I am a daughter of the North,” Sansa said, smiling as she warmed her hands next to the brazier. “We tend to manage.” As Joren imitated her sitting position a couple paces to her left, she said, “I’m curious as to how a Northern man of your age was able to become a knight.”

“Aye, I was just six when your father fought to suppress Greyjoy’s Rebellion at the side of King Robert,” Joren said.

“And you are…”

“Two and twenty now, yes.”

“So, how did you manage it? Did you enter some tournament and win it in a prize, or fight in some war I was not aware of?” she chuckled.

“Not quite,” he said, looking into the fire. “I was seven and ten and bringing some lumber down to the Neck for trade. I came across three bandits who had cornered a man on the Kingsroad. They had beaten him near senseless and were about to rape his wife and daughter when I went at them with my ax. They were the first men I ever killed.” Joren stared at Sansa for a moment - _ Is he expecting me to be horrified? _ she wondered - then turned back to the flames. “He was a knight from the Riverlands, Ser Garren Current - basically some jumped-up hedge knight who served House Roote. Poor man burst into tears when he woke up because he thought the first thing he was going to see was the dead and raped bodies of his family. He barely had enough money to get back to his home, so he decided to knight me instead to show his gratitude.” He glanced back at Sansa for a moment, then back at the flames. “Not exactly a great heroic story.”

“It’s what a true knight is supposed to do, is it not?” Sansa replied. “It seems appropriate for someone to earn a knighthood that way, rather than pay for it like some with no honor.” 

“Well, it was a bragging point for my father, one thing I had that my trueborn brothers did not,” he chuckled.

“What was life like in your home?” Sansa said.

“Not much to it, really,” Joren said. “My father married two women and they each had one of my brothers, first Donnel - he’s five and thirty now, and Artos is thirty. My father never had good luck with women. Donnel’s mother died of pox, and Artos’s mother died giving birth to him. My mother was one of the kitchen maids that caught his eye - he was feeling lonely without a wife. She was wonderful to me, always. I’d spend days with her as she worked in the kitchen, and she was the one who started to teach me about the herbs and mushrooms you could find in the forest.

“She passed away when I was two and ten, some tumor, the maesters said,” Joren continued. He seemed to have difficulty looking directly at her. “Father always looked out for me, taught me how to fight, had the maesters teach me my letters and numbers, never went without a meal. But I always knew that I wasn’t going to get any inheritance from him, other than what I learned. Donnell and Artos were… decent to me, but the older we all got, the more I became a complication in their lives rather than someone to treasure. For a moment, I thought I might have found my place… but that’s gone now.”

Sansa had been staring at him throughout his talk. “Ser Joren… I’ve noticed that you seem to find it difficult to look at me. I hope that it’s not out of some type of… deference to me or some fear of me, I hope.”

Ser Joren jumped in his seat, as if he had been startled. “No, My Lady, it’s not that,” he said, shaking his head. “My deepest apologies. You… remind me of someone, someone who was… special to me.”

“Who?”

He turned to her. “Lily. My wife.” Sansa said nothing, simply allowing him to continue. “Her hair was gold rather than red, My Lady, but otherwise… you would seem to be sisters.”

Sansa took a moment to catch her breath, as the word “was” spoken by him weighed heavily in her mind. “Can you tell me about her?” she asked.

“Not much to say,” he replied. “She was the daughter of a sheep herder who came to work in our household. There were not many prospects for her regarding marriage, but we… became friends.”

“Why would she not be marriageable, Ser Joren? Just because she was a smallfolk wouldn’t necessarily…”

“She had been raped, a couple of years before we met.” Ice coated Joren’s words. “Stupid people thought that meant she was ‘damaged goods,’ as if it were even her fault.” He looked away. “Apologies, My Lady. I didn’t mean to speak of these things.”

“No, it’s…”

“I know you were married to Ramsey Bolton,” Joren blurted out as he turned toward her again. “There have been no stories that I have heard, but I know what his vile reputation was, and my mind can only guess at what you might have endured. I didn’t intend to bring up a painful subject to you…”

Sansa stopped him by leaning over and putting her hand on his arm. “I appreciate your concern,” she said. “Your assumptions regarding my time with that man were correct.” She patted his arm to reassure him. “I’m assuming that you were unlike most stupid people and that was not something that dissuaded you from marrying her.”

He took a deep breath. “It was not. The way she… cared for me, how she would look out for others even at the expense of herself, was something I admired. Maybe I saw something of my mother in her. We also shared the experience of being outsiders, for different reasons.”

“Ser Joren, did your wife ever knew who attacked her?”

He nodded. “It was one of the lower bannermen for House Glover, who was traveling through our lands.”

“What…”

“He is no longer an issue for anyone,” Ser Joren pronounced with a finality that was total. Sansa realized that the knight must have settled the accounts of justice in his own way. “So, you two got married?” she asked.

“Yes, two years ago,” he said in a monotone.

She did not want to ask the next question, but she had to know its answer. “Where is your wife now, Ser Joren?”

“Dead,” came the answer immediately. “She’s been dead three months. Wait, no, four months now,” he added, absentminded.

“How?” she whispered.

He now turned back to the flames. “She was carrying our child. She was eight months gone when she got the fever. Fought it for a week, but eventually it took her. As she was dying, she gave birth to our daughter. Lily named her Anna. She lived three days longer than my wife.”

She was sobbing before she even knew what was happening and her other hand flew to her mouth to muffle it. Ser Joren was shocked at the sound and, after several halting movements, laid his hand on her shoulder in an apparent attempt to comfort her as she got a hold of herself.

Her voice sounded in tatters as she finally spoke. “I did go through the same horrors your wife did in my time with Ramsey, likely worse, although it is not something to boast of. My father was executed and beheaded before my very eyes when I was three and ten. I managed to endure all of it. I do not know how I would endure what you have gone through.”

Joren’s gaze had equal parts sympathy and sadness. “In a way, I really haven’t,” he said. “I knew I could not have a home with my brothers, so Lily was my chance at a home. That is gone now. I came here to fight, I guess, to fulfill my knight’s vows to protect the innocent. But really, I have nowhere else to be.”

_ Gods, the depths of his loss_, Sansa thought. “I can’t imagine not having a home, either,” Sansa said.

She was surprised to see a chuckle out of him as he checked the fire in and put in another couple branches. “First the Ironborn and then the Boltons took your castle, did they not?”

“I always had more of a home than you did, with my family. Jon, though…” She sighed. “My brother was not a true bastard, but he was raised as one. I… did not treat him as he deserved to be treated growing up, and I resolved never to make that mistake again. Everyone deserves that.” Now she had to look away for a moment.

“I’ve been noticing it’s been difficult for you to look at me at times. Any reason?”

“Not really, Ser… actually, you bear some resemblance to my lord father. It is not exact, but… enough to give me pause at times. It does not trouble me, but it brings memories back, both good and bad.”

“All right, I’ll keep that in mind.”

The thought of home and making amends brought something to Sansa’s mind. _ It’s not right, _ she thought of Joren’s status. _ Maybe I can do something… _ “Ser Joren? If I asked your lord father if you could enter my service, here at Winterfell as a household knight, a bannerman, would he allow it?”

The offer caught Joren off his guard. “My Lady, I wouldn’t presume…”

“Would he allow it?” Sansa insisted.

He looked into the brazier as if he was a Red Priest seeking insight from the flames. “He likely would allow it, I think,” he finally said. “My brothers would allow it in a heartbeat - it would solve the difficulty of what to do with me after my father’s death. But I would not wish to impose on you…”

“_Impose? _ Hardly,” she retorted. “Since my father’s death, we have continued to lose bannermen and family. Our strength is nowhere near what it was during the days of my eldest brother’s reign as King of the North, and if these tales of The Others are to be believed, there will be more deaths before this is all done. There will be great need of men to secure House Stark. I will be the one who will have to look after Winterfell when this is all done. I am many things both good and bad, but I am no soldier or fighter.”

He took a long breath, the icy clouds steaming from his mouth, as he continued to ponder Sansa’s offer. “What of your brothers? What of even your sister – I’ve heard stories of her fighting prowess.”

“Bran is many things, but he is not a fighter,” Sansa chuckled. “Jon will be traveling with his new wife to either King’s Landing or Dragonstone to oversee all of Westeros. Arya… I have a sense that while she will not disappear, she is fated to go somewhere else. I need someone who will stay here and fight for me, Ser Joren.”

He was silent for a long moment, not wanting to meet her eyes as he scratched his chin with one hand. The knight seemed more unsure of himself than during the brief time they had known each other. “I could very well die when The Others arrive.”

“So could I,” she said sarcastically, shaking her head. “Look, my father once said that we find our friends on the battlefield. If we both survive this, Ser Joren, I think that we could call each other friends.”

She extended her right arm and hand toward Joren, waiting. After a moment’s hesitation, he clasped her forearm with his hand as she did the same. “Agreed.” He paused for a moment. “My Lady, I have a question.”

“Of course.”

“If – _ if _– my men and I do make it safely to our lines after the dead arrive, where would you like us to make our stand?”

“Make your way to the Great Keep,” she said. “We will be keeping some of the wounded there, as well as the few who will not take part in the fighting. I will be among them. We could use your help in defending the Keep if the dead manage to make their way to it.”

He nodded. “If our ride is true, we will go there.” He finally got up from the floor and extended a hand to help Sansa from it. “It’s getting late. I would be happy to escort you back to the castle..."

"I would not want to make you take a trip in the cold of the night just on my behalf," Sansa replied. "I could stay here and leave at first light with little difficulty."

"My Lady, I would not want to inconvenience you with these conditions..."

"As I said, Ser Joren, I am a daughter of the North. I will manage," she added. She was suddenly shy about the prospect of spending the night alone with the knight in his quarters, but she didn't feel like ordering him to shepherd her back to the castle in the cold just for her convenience. In her mind, she had no reputation to protect.

She noticed that the woodsman turned knight was having more problems trying to meet her eyes. "Very well, then," he said in a great effort to seem casual. "We should probably try and get some sleep. You ever tried to sleep in one of these hammocks?”

“I’m willing to learn.”

#

An hour later, she was shivering as she stood over Ser Joren, tucked into his hammock. Despite being fully dressed and wrapping herself up in her sleeping furs, and despite the fact that the brazier was still giving off heat, the cold was still getting to her. As she jostled his shoulder, he could see him shivering too.

His eyes pried open. “My Lady?” he grunted.

“Can one of those things hold two people?” Sansa said.

He looked up at the thick ropes fastening the hammock to the tent’s frame. “Strong enough.”

“Then what are we doing here?” she pointed out, throwing her hands in the air in frustration.

Now his eyes flew open, and his expression seemed to indicate she’d suggested they kick some puppies. “My Lady, I’m not sure that would be appropriate…”

“We’re sharing body warmth, no more,” Sansa sighed. “Plus, we’re both widowed. It’s not like we have much virtue to sacrifice, Ser.”

With a _ hrumph, _ he threw the sleeping furs aside and pushed the sides of the hammock apart. “Come on, then, My Lady.”

It took them about five minutes to maneuver themselves into the hammock, putting some furs below them and the rest above them. Sansa laid on her side, with her back to Ser Joren, who wrapped his free arm over her to draw her and her warmth closer to him. “Good evening, Joren,” she whispered.

“Good evening, My Lady,” he said, still formal as ever. But his embrace did tighten as they fell asleep.

#

It was early in the morning when Sansa rose from sleep. After a whispered goodbye to a still-waking Ser Joren, she made her way with more certainty down the rope ladder and to her mount to return to the castle.

The guards let her through the Hunter’s Gate, and she rode alongside the edge of the courtyard to the stables to return her horse to its place. She exited the stables and headed toward the Great Keep to her quarters. Her intention was to freshen up, find some new clothes, and prepare to break her fast and begin with the day’s preparations. Only a few had risen that early…

But one of them was her sister, whom she saw looking out over the courtyard from the same walkway she had been on a week or so back staring at Arya coming from the smithy. She held up a steaming mug in a toast to her.

_ Fucking Seven Hells, now I’m getting the treatment. _Trudging up the stairs and frantically trying to rearrange her hair into something resembling its natural order, Sansa made her way to Arya.

She waited for Sansa at the railing, looking over the courtyard. Arya’s hair was unbound and not quite as tangled around her face as it used to be when she was a child coming in from a day of play in the forest, but it was certainly close to it. She was holding one steaming mug while an empty one was to the left of her. There was a water kettle letting off steam that Arya had at her feet. Her sister’s expression was one that she did not truly recognize, or it was unfamiliar to Sansa. If there was a name for it, she’d call it… _ peaceful, perhaps? Contemplative? That’s not usually Arya, for sure, _Sansa thought, knowing her sister’s direct and abrupt nature.

Sansa took her place at Arya’s left-hand side in front of the empty mug. “You’re up early.”

“I usually am,” Arya replied. “This morning I wanted to talk with you so I went to your chambers, but I didn’t find you there.”

_ What would Arya want to chat with me first thing in the morning about? _“I was… away for a time.”

“Away in the Wolfswood?” she asked in disbelief. “What, to inspect the trees?”

“Ser Joren, he… invited me to eat with his men last night, so I accepted the invitation,” Sansa forced out of her mouth, so reluctant she was to make the admission.

“And you stayed the night?” she guffawed, laying her head on the railing.

“Yes, but nothing happened… yes, we shared the same hammock to keep warm… wait, why am I telling you _ that?” _ She dropped her own head on the railing, mortified.

Arya held up the empty mug. “Sister, will you be wanting lemon tea or requiring moon tea for the morning?” she said, cackling while her head was still on the railing.

_ “Lemon _ tea, thank you very much,” Sansa growled as she raised her head and picked up the cup. “As I said, nothing happened.”

“OK, OK, fair enough.” She reached down and poured some water from the kettle into the mug, then added a pouch of the lemon tea to it. “Enjoy.” Arya set the kettle down and took her mug in both of her hands. She settled down and became very quiet as she stared off toward the south, toward the still silent smithy. “More of it for me, then,” she said before taking another sip.

It took a few moments for what Arya said to register with her. She turned to her sister. “Why do you need it?”

She kept staring at the smithy as she took another sip. “Why do you think?” she said, nodding in its direction.

For a long moment, she couldn’t speak as she tried to process the idea of Arya being with a man after so long of showing no interest in romance. _We’ve all changed, though. Perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised. She’s not a child. _“So… you… and the smith, then. The king’s bastard.”

“Yes.”

_ Of course. _ “That’s why you wanted to see me today.”

She nodded as she turned so they were facing each other. “I supposed that was what a sister was for,” she said, laying on the irony. “Aren’t we supposed to gossip about boy… men, how we feel about them, things like that? Now we finally are after all these years.”

“We never really talked about boys,” Sansa said, thinking of how she was before leaving for King's Landing, the young maid enchanted with the idea of a boy who would become the man of her dreams. “That was never us.”

“We didn’t get the chance to talk about boys after being separated for five, six years,” Arya quipped. “That took us right through our ‘boy’ phase. Now it’s about men.”

They were silent for a moment, thinking about the time they’d lost. “So, how did it go?” Sansa finally whispered.

She was relieved to see the smallest of smiles growing on Arya’s face. “Pretty well,” she said. “Neither of us knew much about what to do – Gendry wasn’t a maid but was fairly close to being one – so it was a bit of fumbling at first. Then we got to practicing more, with each other, like I thought about, remember?”

“Yes,” Sansa said. “Did that work?”

Arya grinned as she nodded in disbelief, leaning against the railing. “It got a _ lot _ better after the first time, and we tried it more than a couple of times.” But then, it looked like a black mood overtook her, and she shook her head. “I’m sorry, this must be hard listening to…”

_ “Quit worrying _ about that, Arya!” Sansa said, resting her hand on Arya’s shoulder. “If anything, I’m happy that you didn’t have to experience anything like I did. No one should have to do that.”

Arya took a deep breath as she finished off her mug and patted her sister’s hand on her shoulder. “OK, then.”

Sansa looked around to make sure no one overheard what she was going to ask next. “What did you like about it? What did you like about… him?”

“Gods, really? I’ve got to…” She was silent for a moment again as she turned and looked back toward the courtyard. “You really want to hear this?”

“I want to know what it’s like when it’s good,” Sansa said, shrugging her shoulders. “For… later.”

“The way his hands feel when he touches me. How it feels when I’m laying or sleeping next to him and all of the smells of the forge mingle with his smell and… it feels like home to me.” The word _ home _ echoed in Sansa’s mind. “The… the way…” Arya started to say, but she couldn’t get it out. She leaned forward on the railing, elbows on it, and covered her mouth with her hands and mumbled something from behind them. “What is it, Arya?” she asked, giving her a gentle nudge on the shoulder.

Arya’s face was bright red when she raised it from the protection of her hands, and her grey eyes widened in disbelief. “How it felt…” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “The way it felt when he was inside me. I don’t know, it felt like I was filling up with something wonderful and then it overflowed like water spilling from a tub, and then it just washed over me, this release. And it was amazing.” Biting her lip, she added. “It’s not just… _that_ what causes it, but a lot of things.”

Sansa’s jaw had long dropped as she’d heard the description, then she leaned down next to her on the railing and nudged her shoulder with her own. “Do you love him?”

“Sansa, what kind of question is that?”

“A reasonable question, since you’re apparently lovers now!” Sansa said, laughing.

“Sansa, I…” Arya shrugged her shoulders, looking lost. “What does that mean, love him? All my life, I worried about Mother or Father marrying me off to some stupid lord or highborn, and I wanted to escape that.”

“You had sex with a king’s bastard in the back room of a castle smithy,” Sansa said. “He doesn’t even have the Waters surname, officially, because his father never acknowledged him.”

“His uncle did. I’ll call him Gendry Waters if I want.”

“The point is, this _isn’t_ something you were afraid of. This was something you choose… and to be honest, the way you grew up befriending every smallfolk that worked here and their children, the idea of you falling for a king’s bastard that happens to be a blacksmith… well, it seems about right to me.”

“Hgggrh,” Arya grunted. “I don’t want to have someone telling me what to look like or what to do or if I can go somewhere.”

“Does this Gendry ever do that?”

“Well, no,” Arya replied. “Not back when we first knew each other. Now… about the only thing he did say is that he’d like to go with me if I ever decided to take a trip.”

“Ah, he sounds like an absolute tyrant,” Sansa said as she rolled her eyes.

“Ugh, that’s not really it. I… I never had someone be so… sweet to me before. All last night it was, ‘Are you all right, Arry? What do you want, Arry?’ It was lovely, but… it’s not something I’m used to.”

_ What in Seven Hells, _ she thought. Cocking her head to one side, she pronounced, _ “Arry. _ What is that name about?”

Arya spun to glare at her sister in an apparent attempt to intimidate her, but her red cheeks undercut the effect. “That was the name I used when I hid as a boy when I left King’s Landing with Gendry.”

“And he’s using it now because…” Sansa said, waiting for a response from her sister. When there was none, Sansa pounced. “That’s his pet name for you.”

“Shut up,” Arya said, bumping her sister’s shoulder with her own, “it is _ not.” _

“Oh, it is, it is,” she said, bumping her back. “What’s your pet name for him?” Arya snarled as her eyes bugged out in response. “You _ do _ have a pet name for him.”

“For fuck’s sake, shut up,” Arya growled, now shoving Sansa. “Besides, why should I say I love him when everyone I ever loved wound up getting killed, or at least most of them? Why would I do that when we’re about to get swarmed by an army of dead people?”

_ Ah, so that’s it. _Despite her growling and burning stare, Sansa could see that Arya was about to burst into tears, so she wrapped her sister into a hug before either that or more shoving occurred. “Oh, sweetling,” she whispered, “I’m so sorry. I’m scared, too. I don’t know what else to say… I don’t think I’ve ever felt like that for anyone before, so I can’t say what to do. Just know I’m here to listen.”

It appeared Arya was expecting some sort of lecture from her older sister and was surprised she didn’t get it. “OK. Thank you.”

“Are you going back there tonight?” Sansa asked with a hint of mischief.

“I am,” Arya whispered to her.

“Good.”

“You going back out to keep your bastard knight company?”

“Might be difficult, to be honest,” Sansa replied as they finally parted from their embrace. “Not that he wouldn’t mind the company, but I think he would prefer me to be safe in the castle the closer The Others get.”

“I’d have to agree, even though that’s not convenient for you,” Arya said, looking up at her. “What’s his story, by the way?”

It took Sansa a while to recount Joren’s story to her sister, and as she told and Arya listened, they slumped back down onto the railing of the bridge and Arya refilled their tea mugs. “Seven Hells,” Arya sighed at the end of it. “Just when you think that the Starks of Winterfell are the masters of misery, someone tops us.” She turned to face Sansa. “Do you love _ him?” _

“I don’t even know,” Sansa said. “I just met the man a couple of weeks ago…”

“Father and Mother didn’t even know each other when they married, and yet they fell in love,” Arya noted. “That wouldn’t be the way I’d want it, but I’m not you and maybe things work differently for you.”

“What I know is, he’s a man who deserves a home and a place,” Sansa insisted. “I made a big mistake neglecting Jon as children because of who he was, and I’ll be damned to the Seven Hells if I’m going to make anyone else suffer just for how they were born if I can help it. Besides, I need men like him to help me protect the North after Jon leaves for King’s Landing with his new wife.”

“You ask me, Jon might as well hand over the crown of the North to you when he becomes King of Westeros or whatever,” Arya noted. “He’s going to be busy enough, and you know enough about ruling that it won’t be in bad hands. A man like Ser Joren might be useful helping you keep in control of things. I’d be willing to suggest it myself.”

“It might come better from you than me. I don’t want him thinking I’m too ambitious.”

“It’s not being ambitious, it’s practical considering he won’t be here most of the time. Listen, speaking of Jon, don’t tell him about this, will you? I don’t need to deal with him worrying about my virtue or whatever.”

“As long as you don’t mention my trek to the Wolfswood or my woodsman knight turned bannerman, I think we have an agreement.”

As the two sisters ironically shook hands, Arya commented, “What would Mother think of her two daughters consorting with bastards rather than proper highborn men?”

That thought hit Sansa right in the heart. “All things being equal, I wish she were still here so we could surprise her in person.” After that, they had to hug each other for a while to keep from bawling right in front of everyone.


	23. The Night is Dark and Full of Terrors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guests both expected and unexpected arrive at Winterfell as the Night King’s army gets closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I had one chapter mutate into two chapters. We'll see the other one, which will be from Tyrion's POV, coming up next. As of now, I'm going to have two more chapters before getting into the Battle of the Long Night.

23.

**Jon**

Even the light seemed a little cold as it filtered into their chambers.

He pried his eyes open after what had turned out to be a relatively late night for him and his new bride. Not _ that _ much wine had been imbibed, but enough that they had easily fallen into another round of romantic interludes.

Jon looked around the room. Ghost stood and propped his head onto Jon’s side of the bed and tucked his snout underneath Jon’s arm, eager for his attention. “Well, morning to you, boy,” Jon whispered to him. Ghost had a habit recently of dividing his time between the Wolfswood if he was in a hunting mood or outside the kitchens of Winterfell if he wanted to play on the sympathies of the servants. They were always willing to let the King’s direwolf root through the table leavings for any bones of worth before making his daily rounds.

Looking to his left, he found his beloved queen asleep at his side. Dany was facedown on the bed, some of her silver-blond tresses escaping underneath the pillow she’d used to cover her head. Her bare legs stuck out from underneath the furs, which just barely covered her backside which was sticking up in the air.

Jon reached over and slowly moved the furs from her rump. Leaning over, he cocked his head and planted a kiss squarely on her right buttock, squeezing the other cheek with his free hand.

_ “Ughmmph,” _she groaned from underneath the pillow, her legs twitching and toes curling at the unexpected attention from him. After playfully rubbing the side of his face against her buttock, he inched upwards along the line of her body until he came to her covered head. “Good morning, Wife,” he said as he kissed the pillow above her head.

“Ugh,” she grunted again as she moved the pillow from her head and pried open a single eyelid to gaze through their window. “Do we have to wake up now? As exhausted as I am, I could easily sleep to lunch, I think.”

“Are you all right, Dany?” he whispered, moving her hair away from her still motionless head before giving her a peck on the forehead.

“It will be well enough,” Dany said, finally raising her head to face him and rearranging the furs to cover herself and her bottom. “Likely I’ve been expending a lot of energy in our preparations, I’ll be fine.” Her arms encircled his neck and she grinned as she drew him in for a long kiss, then brushing her lips across the rest of his face as the furs now slid down to her waist, leaving her chest exposed. “I had plenty of energy to keep up with you last night, did I not?”

“You definitely did,” he said through their kiss as he drew her closer to him. He started to draw slow, soft circles across her nipples with his thumbs as he cradled her breasts, taking care not to touch them with too much vigor after an athletic session of lovemaking the previous night had left both her bosoms somewhat bruised and sensitive.

Both he and apparently Dany were thinking of continuing their activities further until they heard approaching footsteps outside in the hall. They managed to break apart and lay down together in the bed, furs drawn up over both their torsos thanks to Jon, before there was a knock on the door. _ “Khaleesi, _may we enter?” Missandei’s voice called out from behind the door.

“Yes, enter, please,” Dany said, flustered at the surprise enough not to worry about proper protocol.

Both Missandei and Grey Worm entered their room in a rush. Jon idly noticed that Missandei’s hair seemed somewhat out of order, and Grey Worm for some reason had apparently forgotten his belt. He decided he did not need to comment. “Yes, Missandei?” Dany asked her.

“Forgive me for disturbing you, Your Graces,” she replied. “Dothraki scouts have reported a large contingent of people approaching us from the north. Likely the group from the Wall you were expecting. They should be here in an hour.”

“Very well,” Jon said, nodding. “We’ll get things ready for their arrival.”

“The scouts also report a group of men traveling from the south along… the Kingsroad,” Grey Worm added. “Not… big like first group. Smaller.”

“Do we have any idea who they are?” Jon asked.

Grey Worm shook his head. “No, we do not.”

“All right.” He saw Daenerys reach over and slip her nightgown over her head with no thought of shyness in her close friends’ presence, so he decided to reach for his trousers as well. “Make sure they’re not Lannister forces, at least. We’ll be ready shortly.”

“Your Graces,” Missandei and Grey Worm said in unison as they bowed. Grey Worm left the room, but Missandei stayed behind and sat down next to the Queen. “Your hair, Your Grace,” she said, pointing to her again unbound silver-blond locks.

“Thank you, Missandei,” she said as she stared into a mirror set up on the wall next to a dresser. “We might have to try something more… durable for now.”

Missandei sheepishly glanced at Jon and back to her friend. “Yes, I… can see, _ Khaleesi.” _

“I was afraid of that,” Jon said as he pulled on his boots.

“Of what, Jon?”

“I’ve been thinking for a bit we’ve been running out of time to prepare for the Army of the Dead’s arrival,” Jon explained. “If the Watch and Tormund’s group are here, that means the army can’t be far behind.” He turned to his wife as he slipped a shirt over his head. “This is where the tough time starts.”

“I see,” Dany said, nodding.

#

**Daenerys**

_ It was more than the extra sleepiness, _ she thought as she and Jon entered the courtyard to make their way to the North Gate. Her appetite was lower than normal and her stomach slightly upset on top of her excessive sleepiness. _ More than likely some bug going around than anything else, or some food disagreeing with me. Or maybe the idea of having to face the end of everything is finally getting to me. _ Regardless of what it was, she had no plans of worrying her husband about how she was feeling. _ He has enough worries without that. Besides, would _ he _ take to his bed if he was in the same situation? _

As they made their way through the packed courtyard with Missandei and Grey Worm in tow, she saw Ghost trotting toward the Hunters’ Gate to the west. The king’s direwolf had the run of the entire castle and surrounding lands, and even the lowest-ranking guards at the gates knew to open them to allow his entrance and exits. Daenerys smiled as she recalled the first meeting of Ghost and her dragon children. There were a few awkward grunts and snorts on both sides, but as noses both furred and scaled recognized the shared scents of her and Jon on each other, they slowly began to make friends and touch noses. Now, when Ghost was not keeping her and Jon company, he often went scouting around the woods with the dragons, him on foot and the dragons circling above. She liked to think that Ghost was showing his new winged brothers the best local hunting spots.

As she and Jon walked side by side to the North Gate, she saw Tyrion approach her from her other side, legs moving as fast as possible to keep up. She slowed her pace for his benefit. “Greetings, Lord Tyrion.”

“Your Graces,” Tyrion said with a nod.

“Apologies for the hike, my lord, but given the size of the group coming in, I wanted to greet them nearer the entrance to the camps so they can get situated.”

“Understandable, Your Grace, considering the… size of our greeting party.” Daenerys glanced behind them. In addition to Ser Jorah Mormont, Lord Varys, and Lady Sansa following them several paces behind, a considerable number of Freefolk had started to gather behind them as they exited the North Gate and entered the camp areas north of Winterfell’s walls. “But… what of the visitors from the south?”

“They will not be at our lines for another couple hours, according to the scouts. We’ll be able to treat with these visitors and get back over there in plenty of time, with a bit of walking in between, I’m afraid.”

Tyrion shook his head. “There’s no need to apologize. It’s not like I’m roughing it out here like the men – I’m sleeping every night behind castle walls.”

By the time they got to the outer palisade perimeter, the group from the north was already picking its way through the opening “gate.” One of the first to approach was a relatively young boy with shaggy brown hair, amber eyes, and wearing a cuirass decorated with the markings of chains across it. The boy, who she recognized as the young Lord Umber, came and kneeled before Jon. “Your Grace. I have done as you ordered and brought my house here to your service.”

Jon waved for him to stand up and laid his hands on the young lord’s shoulders as he did. “I am very glad that you have rescued your people from the Others. Many were not as lucky.”

“I apologize, King Jon,” the boy said. “I have just 150 fighting men left to serve me – not much to offer…”

“It is 150 we did not have before, and more importantly, 150 men who have not yet been recruited into the Army of the Dead, and others who will not be as well. You have done much, Lord Umber.”

“With the help of these men, mind,” he said, nodding to two approaching men. One was a pinched, sharp-faced, black-haired man dressed all in black wool, leather, and furs, and the other was a greying, one-eyed warrior dressed as a southren knight under his long fur cloak. “Your Graces,” they both said as they bowed in front of the couple.

“My Queen, these are Ser Beric Dondarrion and Eddison Tollett, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch,” Jon said. After shaking Ser Beric’s hand, he smiled and drew his former brother of the Watch into a hug. “How many of the brothers are with you?” he asked.

Edd grunted. “Saying there’s 200 in the Black might be optimistic,” he responded.

“Seven Hells,” Jon replied, shaking his head. “Well, at least you made it…”

Daenerys yelped in surprise as a speeding figure covered in furs collided with Jon and hoisted him up in the air. “King Crow!” hooted the man before setting him down with a _ thump._ “Great to see you again.”

“Good to see you too,” Jon chuckled as he threw his arm around the man and turned him to face her. “Queen Daenerys, may I present Tormund Giantsbane, leader of the Free Folk.”

The man her husband presented her was all smiles, but she could see someone who might rival her late first husband in formidability. He was a full foot taller than Jon and twice as wide, with wild flaming red hair and long beard and blue eyes that twinkled with more than their share of mischief. He was covered in thick brown-furred outerwear and armed with two massive dragonglass axes carried on his back and a dragonglass dagger tucked into his belt. “This the Dragon Queen, then?” he said to Jon, pointing to her and nodding. “A pleasure.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” Daenerys replied.

Tormund turned to Jon. “Are you two… you _ are, _aren’t you?”

“We’re married…” Jon started to mumble.

“Well, you are moving up in the world, are you?” he hooted, then turned to Daenerys. “I have to say you’re a lucky woman, Dragon Queen. This one’s almost as mad a fucker as I am, and that’s saying a lot, but there’s no one with a better heart than him, trust me.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Missandei, Grey Worm, and the others with eyes widened and horrified expressions at the blitheness of the Free Folk chieftain. Even Tormund seemed to sense a break in protocol, because he said, “Hopefully I did not offend…”

“You should not be concerned, Tormund Giantsbane,” Daenerys replied, conveying an impression of utter ease. “Jon… has told me much of you, and the Freefolk and their ways. We are glad that your people have returned for the fight ahead.”

Her retinue and Tormund relaxed at that. Jon turned back to Tormund. “Speaking of the fight ahead, when do you believe the Army of the Dead will be here?”

“Based on how fast they were moving and where we last saw them… likely tomorrow night, for sure,” Ser Beric said.

“Agreed,” Tormund replied.

“Then, we have no time,” Jon said. He turned to Lord Umber. “My lord, those of your house who will be unable to fight will need to leave Winterfell as soon as possible for the trip to White Harbor,” he said. “We will make sure they have provisions for the trip, but once those are done, they will have to leave.”

“There should be enough wagons on hand to handle all of them,” Sansa said. “They’ll have to go by the afternoon, at least. It will be the last wagon train from here for sure.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Lord Umber said to Jon.

“Come on, then,” Jon said. “We’ll get everyone sorted and then figure out who’s coming to meet with us from the south.”

The entire group headed back to the castle. As they moved through the crowd of Free Folk that had been following them, Daenerys saw two young girls approach Tormund. They had the same red hair as him and features that were more handsome than pretty, harsh angles rather than classically rounded beauty. “Hello, Poppa,” the older and taller of the two girls said to him.

Grinning madly, Tormund reached over and gathered them in for a hug. “King Crow, you’ve met my daughters, yes?”

“Ah, I’ve seen you with them, but not met…”

He nodded to the older one, as tall and red-haired as Sansa, looking somewhere around Arya’s age. “This is my oldest, Marah.” He turned to the younger one, a scowling girl who appeared to be four and ten. “This is my youngest, Munda. Good to see you again, girls.”

“Where do you think we would be?” Marah said. “Poppa, we have something to tell you.”

“What is it, sweetling?” Tormund asked.

“Hello, Father,” a deep, growling voice full of gravel called out from the crowd.

Everyone turned to face where the words had come from. A young man in Freefolk garb strolled through as the other Freefolk parted to allow him to make his way. His hair and beard were the same color as Tormund’s, but considerably shorter in both instances. He shared the same facial features as Tormund, but he appeared to be at least somewhere between twenty or five and twenty, minus Tormund’s laugh lines around his eyes. He was not as well-muscled as Tormund, but he appeared strong and was at least a head taller than him. He carried a huge double-bladed, two-handed dragonglass battle axe in his hands.

Tormund stopped dead in his tracks and took a triple-take as he recognized the young man. “The Others take my fucking eyes.” He turned to Jon. “Allow me to introduce Toregg the Tall, my son.”

Jon stared at him in confusion. “You never said anything about a son.”

“He left just before you arrived with Ygritte,” Tormund said, waving him off. “I’ll be honest, I hadn’t heard from him in so long I figured he was dead.” He looked over at Toregg. “Where’ve you been, anyway?”

“Wandered up farther north for a while,” Toregg said. “Visited the Fist of the First Men, went up north as far as the Giant’s Stair, then headed to The Frozen Shore for a bit. Somewhere along the way, I heard Mance was dead and you had taken over for him. Then we ran into the Others and realized why Mance was so keen on getting us south of the Wall, so we decided to try for it, too. Went for a swim around the western end of the Wall to avoid climbing, but we likely shouldn’t have bothered. There wasn’t but a dozen crows in the Shadow Tower.”

“He’s a bit independent-minded, my boy,” Tormund told Jon before letting out a great belly laugh before draping an arm over the taller man. “Glad you’re here, though. We’ll need you against those dead men soon enough, believe me.”

Jon was sheepish as he glanced at her. “My Queen, I did give you some warning…”

Daenerys was trying not to laugh as she drank in her husband’s awkwardness. “I believe the phrase you used was ‘The Freefolk make the other Northerners look like the Unsullied on parade.’”

“Something like that,” Jon said, relaxing a little.

“I’m a bit more impressed than before that you managed to get them to fight for you, or listen to you at all.”

“When you help save my people and sacrifice your own life in the process, that tends to get my attention, Dragon Queen,” Tormund commented.

“I hope I won’t have to go _ that _far to gain your respect, Tormund Giantsbane,” she replied.

“Hope not either. I think King Crow would miss you.”

As Jon decided to start explaining his recently revealed origins, Daenerys overheard Munda whisper and point “Who’s that?” at Ned Umber. She realized Munda appeared to be about the same age as the young lord of Last Hearth.

Marah responded with a swift smack to the back of her sister’s head. “Oi, Munda, don’t be a stupid cunt!” she hissed. “There’s no time for that sort of shit.”

Munda’s older sister got a smack on the back of her head and a shove to the shoulder besides. “If dead people are comin’ to eat us, maybe it _ is _ time for that, you ever think of that?” she whispered back.

“Not _ my _ fault you haven’t been with a boy,” grumbled Marah.

“Look, girls,” Tormund said, interrupting Jon’s story by grabbing both his daughters by the scruff of the neck and grinning at them through gritted teeth, “it’s not proper to be arguing and cussing in front of highborns, so lay off until you get by yourselves, right?”

Both girls shot their father dirty looks, but immediately fell quiet and continued to walk in silence. After they looked away, Tormund shrugged his shoulders in the universal “what are you going to do?” gesture before returning to Jon and his story.

#

After Tormund had absorbed Jon’s story (“The dead are coming, we’ve got dragons flying over our heads, and you’re secretly one of the dragonlords. Sounds like a typical day in the North.”), the royal couple, their advisers, and the group from the north proceeded into the castle.

The Winterfell courtyard only had half of the space it normally had due to the catapults, extra storage areas, and tents occupying it. Daenerys saw Jaime Lannister, along with his Unsullied guards, overlooking the courtyard from one of the bridges alongside Brienne of Tarth and Arya Stark.

By the smithy, Gendry… Waters, she guessed, was taking a series of whacks at a massive wooden pole he’d stuck in the ground outside the smithy. She thought it might be some sort of chore, but she saw the massive dragonglass-tipped war hammer he was using and realized that he was practicing his fighting skills. She also looked up and noticed Arya was staring down at Gendry as every new hit from the hammer sent splinters from the top of the pole flying.

Maester Wolkan was waiting for them near the South Gate as they got into the open area of the courtyard proper. “Are they almost here?” Jon asked him.

“The watchmen just said that they are seeing them approach by foot from just over the nearest rise,” the master said. “They’re coming straight here through the winter town and then to us. The majority of them are on foot, with a couple of horses.”

“Do they have any idea of who they are?” Jon replied.

Wolkan sighed. “Your Grace, they fly flags with a flaming heart on them.”

_ The followers of R’hllor, _Daenerys realized immediately. “What are they here for? To offer their support?”

“You think the Red Witch might be with them?” Tormund spoke up. “Might be useful to have someone around who can resurrect you again, Little Crow.”

“If she’s here, she’s signed her death warrant,” Jon said. “I banished her from the North for killing Shireen Baratheon, and she knows I would have her killed if she returned.”

“Let’s see who they are and what they have to say,” Daenerys said.

The gate opened to let the visitors come through. At the head of the two columns of men were two women on horses, swaddled in red robes and hooded cloaks. Both lowered their hoods as they entered the courtyard and eventually dismounted. The one on the right, with her copper-colored hair, ivory features, and distinctive ruby necklace, was indeed Melisandre, the Red Witch.

“Who’s the other woman?” Jon asked. She had auburn hair, blue eyes, a pointed chin and slightly darker coloring than Melisandre, and also wore a ruby necklace similar in design to the other woman.

“I recognize her, Your Grace,” Tyrion said. “She is Kinvara, the high priestess of the Lord of Light’s temple in Volantis. When we struggled against the slavemasters in Meereen and those who supported them, she and her followers pledged their support to the queen.”

“Indeed she did, but I would be wary of her, too,” Varys spoke up. “She has a… slipperiness to her that rivals even Melisandre.”

“The men?” Jon said, pointing to the long lines of troops streaming through. They wore ornate armor on top of orange robes, and were armed with spears that had spear points shaped to resemble flames. They also bore flame tattoos on their cheeks.

“The Fiery Hand,” Missandei said. “They are the slave guards for the Temple of the Lord of Light in Volantis.”

“They have some skill at fighting,” Grey Worm said. “Not like… Unsullied, but good.”

Melisandre bowed before Daenerys and Jon. “Queen Daenerys, Breaker of Chains, a pleasure to see you again. Your Grace, King in the North. May I present the High Priestess of the Lord of Light in Volantis, Kinvara.”

“Welcome to you both,” she replied, trying for a neutral tone as possible. She could see the stares of disgust or anger from many in the courtyard, not the least from Jon and her advisers. If Arya had access to a bow, Daenerys feared she would have decorated the Red Woman with arrows. A disgusted looking Gendry took a swing at his training pole that shattered its top part, afterward stalking back into the smithy and flinging his war hammer at a wall with a grunt.

“We have to talk,” Jon said, his tone brooking no diplomatic niceties. “Follow us to the Great Hall and we’ll sort you.” Without comment or dissent, the two women followed him as he directed.

#

“Melisandre, I did say that if you ever came back to the North, I would have you executed as a murderer, did I not?”

“You did, Your Grace,” Melisandre replied as she and Kinvara stood in the middle of the Great Hall with Jon and Daenerys facing them from the main table. Sansa, Missandei, Grey Worm, Ser Jorah, Lord Varys, and Lord Tyrion were also at the table, pinning the two Red Priestesses to the floor of the hall with their stares. Melisandre had asked for Bran to be present as well, so he was looking on from the side of the room, accompanied by Samwell.

“Then, explain why I shouldn’t carry out that sentence immediately, eh? I would swing the sword myself, even though there seems to be plenty of those here who would be willing to do it.”

“Your Grace, we look to help you, in the service of the Lord of Light, defeat the darkness that is approaching this place and threatens to overwhelm the continent,” Melisandre said with perfect ease. “You are the best hope to be the one who brings the dawn, so we are here to help you fulfill that purpose. I would meet with your brother and Lord Tarly here to help make those plans.”

“I remember hearing from you that I might have a role to play in being this Prince That Was Promised,” Daenerys said. “To be fair, you said my king would have a role as well. Do you still believe this?”

“The joining of the two of you in marriage is the true Union of Ice and Fire,” Melisandre replied. “This marriage, and the discovery of Jaehaerys Targaryen as the Secret Dragon, are just further signs that the prophecy is coming true.”

“All this is entertaining,” Jon said, visibly unimpressed by the prophesying of the Red Witch, “but none of it gives me a clear reason why I shouldn’t execute you now.”

“As I have seen both of you serving the role as The Prince That Was Promised, I have also seen my own death in the flames. I know I am to die here in this foreign land, far away from my birthplace.” She turned to Bran. “Lord Brandon, you have said that the Others will be here at the walls of Winterfell by tomorrow night, is this not true?”

Bran gave a single nod. “As best as I can see the army, yes,” he said.

“Thank you.” She turned to Jon. “I predict that I will be dead by that night. However, if for some reason I survive that Long Night, I would accept your order of execution immediately or at your earliest convenience. I would beg you to give me a chance for us to assist you in bringing the dawn. We can be of service to both you and the Lord of Light.”

Jon turned to her. “What say you, my Queen?”

Daenerys stared at the Red Witch, trying to ferret out any hint of falsehood but sensing none. “As you said during a previous meeting, My King, we need all of the assistance that we can get against the Army of the Dead. In a world where there are centuries and eons, what difference is it if one woman is executed today or two days from now?”

“Very well,” Jon said. Turning to the Red Witch, his grey eyes ablaze, he said, “Your execution is delayed for now. You will go with my brother and Lord Samwell to review what might be done to vanquish the Night King. After the Night King’s arrival, if you are still alive, your life will be forfeit if the Others have not dealt with you on their own.”

Melisandre bowed before the king and queen. “I serve both of you, Your Graces.”

“Your Graces, we have 300 members of the Fiery Hand here to serve you,” Kinvara said. “Lord Brandon told us of his plan to stay in the godswood during the fighting to draw the Night King toward him so he can be vanquished. My King, let us serve as Lord Brandon’s protectors when the night is dark and full of terrors.”

“You seriously think we would trust you?” Sansa blurted out.

Jon guffawed at that. “And you promise not to attempt to sacrifice him in some bizarre scheme to defeat the Night King, as is your custom?”

“Your Grace,” said Ser Beric, who had been standing in the back of the Great Hall during the meeting, “I will wait in the godswood alongside the Fiery Hand to protect your brother. I swear by the Lord of Light that I will protect him at the cost of my own life, if need be.”

Jon looked to Bran. “Are you all right with this?”

“They will not harm me,” Bran said, his voice neutral. “They think you to be the Azor Ahai, reborn to fight the darkness. They will seek to keep me safe because it will make the Night King vulnerable to attack from you.”

“So be it,” Jon said. He turned to Grey Worm. “We’ll need some of your Unsullied to keep an eye on the priestesses until this is over. Sansa, we can probably have the Fiery Hand camp out in the godswood if we need to.”

“Might make more sense since time will be short and they’ll need to be there anyway,” Sansa said, nodding.

Jon nodded. “Anything else, Your Grace?” he asked her.

Daenerys shook her head. “Not at this time. I believe we will have one final meeting tomorrow morning between all commanders to finalize battle locations, except for the cavalry commanders. They should start maneuvering into their positions tonight. The king and I will meet with those commanders for final orders before they leave.” She stood up at the end of her talk, which was the cue for the meeting to break up.

#

Jon and Daenerys entered the smithy after the meeting to see Gendry Waters sulking in the corner, leaning up against one of the forges. To Daenerys’ not quite surprise, Arya Stark was there, trying to talk with him, even placing her hand on one of his arms in an attempt to calm him down. “Are you all right, Gendry?” Daenerys asked.

Gendry’s head snapped up as he recognized the voice. “Oh, Your Grace, sorry, it’s nothing…”

“The Red Bitch nearly had him killed and it would have happened if it wasn’t for Ser Davos.” Daenerys could swear she saw the death’s head in Arya’s eyes as she glared at her and Jon. “Are you going to have her executed? If you feel too soft to her since she brought you back from the dead, just say the word and _ I’ll _ slit her throat.”

“We might need her to figure out how to defeat the Night King,” grunted Jon. “Once she’s done with that, even she knows she’ll face a death sentence with me.”

She groaned. “OK, I get the existential threat. Gendry, are you all right with this?”

Gendry threw up his hands. “What’s the difference if she gets killed now, tomorrow, or three years from now if it’s done.” He stared directly into Arya’s gaze. “I’ll be fine, Arya, really.”

“Ah, Gendry, you said that you had those items ready for us?” Jon spoke up.

“Ah, yeah. _ Yeah. _ I have them on the back table in the corner, Your Grace. We can see them now if you like.”

“Sure, of course,” Jon said.

“Jon, Daenerys, do you mind if I hang around? Gendry said he was going to get me some more dragonglass daggers for throwing knives.”

“Go ahead,” he waved absentmindedly.

Gendry reached over to one of his work benches and pulled a tarp off of the top of the table. It revealed two black cuirasses, one larger than the other, but both with the distinctive sigil of House Targaryen splashed across the chest of both pieces, etched and painted red. “The armor you requested,” Gendry said. “Frankly, it makes sense for both of you. You’re more tempting targets being king and queen, and in the air, riding your dragons, you’re much more vulnerable to arrows and missiles from below.”

She traced her fingers along the sigil on her cuirass. “This is… exquisite work, Gendry, especially on such short notice.”

“Likely your dragons could benefit from some type of armor, although it would take a bit longer to put those together.”

“I appreciate the thought, but that would take too much time,” she replied. “They’re my children, so trust me when I say I will watch for them.”

Gendry saw Jon looking over his own cuirass. “What do you think, Your Grace? It’d make you look like a true dragonlord.”

“Still feels strange to wear the Targaryen crest on my chest, after being raised a Stark in the North.”

“Beg pardon, Your Grace, but you’re still a Stark, both through your mother and through you being raised by the Starks here in the North. I know how unique, contrary and good-hearted Northerners are.” Only Jon didn’t notice how Gendry locked eyes with Arya as he said the last sentence.

“Good point, Gendry,” Jon said, still staring at the Targaryen symbol.

“Your Grace,” Gendry said, addressing Daenerys, “I also had those two other items for you.” He went to another end of the table and produced a dragonglass arahk and a small dragonglass dagger. “Once you make a few hundred of these by hand, the building tends to get easier.”

“Thank you, Gendry. I’m not expecting to engage the dead in hand to hand combat, but my experiences with them have taught me to expect the unexpected.”

“Arya told me how you’ve been training to wield a sword, like the scimitars popular in Essos,” Gendry said. “Once we have time… later… I could likely forge you one for real. I’d put my steel up against anyone’s except the steel of Old Valerya.”

“I look forward to that, Gendry Waters. Do you know where you will be for the fighting?”

“Likely on the west wall, Your Grace, along with some of the other fighters not connected to the other houses,” he replied.

“Arya is planning on being there as well,” Jon said as he and Daenerys gathered their new armor and arms up. “Would you be willing, as a favor to me, to keep an eye on her? She has fought much before and has considerable skills as a warrior, but this will be the first real battle she’s ever fought in.”

To the surprise of everyone there, Gendry bowed before Jon. “Your wish will be done, I promise it.”

Jon leaned over and patted Gendry on the shoulder. “I appreciate it very much.” He and Daenerys collected their armor. “Well, I will leave you to things.” He walked to Arya, leaned down and kissed her on the forehead. “I’ll see you before the fight, but take care of yourself, all right?”

“Always,” Arya said.

As the royal couple left the forge, Daenerys looked back and saw Arya taking Gendry's hand into hers and leaning against him. Jon did not look back to see the embrace, but Daenerys nodded toward the couple and they returned the gesture. _ Stay safe, _ she thought. _ We need you. Your brother and I need you around. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of notes:
> 
> 1\. Tormund is FUN to write for, no doubt.
> 
> 2\. Tormund's family is a mix between book Tormund and TV Tormund. I have to think that someone as wild as Tormund would have more than a few kids. I also wanted Toregg to be cut from the same cloth as his father, someone independent enough that he'd think nothing of going on his own adventures for a few years before checking in on Poppa.
> 
> 3\. As this chapter might imply, we may have intimate relations between teens younger than 16, which happens all of the time in real life even though most parents don't want to think about it for reasons that have more to do with them than their kids. I will not be adding the underage tag, however, because those intimate scenes will be occurring "off-page," so to speak.
> 
> 4\. I had to have the followers of the Lord of Light into the mix. They are going to consider Jon and Dany to be their saviors, even though the royal couple, especially Jon, is wary of all the mumbo-jumbo they have to offer. Jon had a few ambitions, but demigod wasn't one of those.
> 
> Please leave kudos if you like and any comments you have on the chapter or previous ones. I appreciate them all and I will respond to them, guaranteed, either right away or a little after.


	24. The Spider, the Imp, and the Perfumed Sister

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two old friends consider how times have changed in Westeros. Two others jaded with life decide to take a leap of faith.

24.

**Tyrion**

After the meeting with Melisandre and the royal couple broke up, Tyrion excused himself to head out to the courtyard. He was going to be at the final meeting tomorrow morning with the captains of the various units, and then after that there would be little else to do except for holing up in the Great Keep and waiting for the Others to arrive.

It was there that he saw Varys, glum and muted, standing on one of the bridges overlooking the courtyard. Tyrion decided to see what was on his mind.

“You look like you’re about to go on a considerable bender, my friend,” Tyrion commented as he came to stand next to him.

“I think I’ll wait on that until tonight at the earliest,” Varys commented, eyes rolling. “I’m going to see if there’s anything my birds have to say before we start this fight against the dead in earnest.”

“I see.”

“What they have to say about _Cersei,_ mind. There’s not too many volunteers to spy on an Army of the Dead, no matter how many dragons, stags, or stars might be offered. My time will be spend confirming which of the people in our encampment is passing along information to Cersei’s Hand, Qyburn.”

“Do you know who they are?”

“For the most part,” Varys said as he drew his grey woolen cloak around him, his typical Essoi robes insufficient on their own to protect him from the cold for long periods. “They are no one of significant rank. I will leave them unmolested until it is time to pass along the songs we want Cersei to hear.”

“Good to know.”

“Yes, it is good to know that I still have some value to our queen,” he replied, the sarcasm dripping from his voice. “There were always sayings about how Starks or Northerners didn’t fare well below the Neck. Perhaps there needs to be a few sayings about how those from King’s Landing do not fare well in the North.”

“Nonsense, you are certainly going to be of use when it comes to seizing King’s Landing,” Tyrion replied. “And even in peacetime, you and your birds will be needed to inform Their Graces of what is going on in the world, with friend and foe alike.”

“There are some other things to consider, Tyrion,” he replied. “If you count Jon and Daenerys as separate sovereigns, they would be the sixth and seventh that I have served. That’s quite a bit of service for thirty years. I’m starting to wonder if I am beginning to lose my… abilities, wits, whatever you wanted to call them.”

“Var…”

“I had no idea of Jon’s announcement, nor even of its coming,” Varys interrupted. “Not even its coming. And now, that’s thrown my contingency plans into chaos.”

“Contingency plans?”

Varys nodded. “You remember our conversation in the throne room of Dragonstone, after the Battle of the Loot Train? Where I said we needed to plan to temper the fiery tendencies of our queen? One of those plans was to see if there would be any… _alternatives _to our current rulers. Now that they have done what they have done, those plans have been riddled with arrows and rotting in the fields.

“There are only four possible people that we could support to be ruler of Westeros,” Varys continued. “The first of these, obviously, is Daenerys. Her compassion and intelligence are her great strengths as a ruler, as her fiery temper and the general Targareyn tendencies toward madness are weaknesses. We have discussed this before.

“The minute I heard Jon… Jaehaerys, whichever name he goes by now, I realized that he was another possible candidate for the Iron Throne. First, he technically has a better claim to the crown compared to Daenerys, since he is the sole surviving trueborn child of Aerys’ crown prince. He’s far more deliberate and thoughtful in his actions, and not someone who lets his emotions run away from him. But that plan was shattered within moments when he announced that they would marry. From everything I’ve observed, he’s besotted with her and would not hear any talk of her being set aside for his own ambitions.”

“I would have to agree with that. It’s been building up even before we left Dragonstone for the North, and well underway by the time we got to White Harbor,” Tyrion said, sighing. “However, I think that many of your concerns might be alleviated by their marriage. As they mentioned, he is level-headed with a strong military mind and knowledge of Westeros. She brings a knowledge of diplomacy and ruling a wide variety of peoples, as well as a ruthlessness needed for rule. They compliment each other well.”

“I hope you are right, and I hope this is the solution to my fears regarding our queen,” Varys said, shaking his head. “Because I am out of schemes and the only two other options there are for ruling have even more problems.”

“Two other solutions?” Tyrion said skeptically.

“The first one is down there,” Varys said, nodding toward the smithy.

“You’re japing, Gendry Waters? How would that…”

“He is the only surviving child of Robert Baratheon, bastard or otherwise,” Varys pointed out. “He has a claim at least as good as Cersei’s to the throne, maybe equal to Daenerys’ if the right argument were made. But, there would be a major problem with trying to put him on the throne.”

“Varys, my friend, I used to think that my father was the most knowledgeable person about politics I ever knew, but I think you are a contender for that title,” Tyrion pronounced in a grand fashion, both insincere and sincere at the same time. “Please, what would the problem be?”

Varys leaned closer to Tyrion. “All great kings need to have _some_ ambition to rule, a certain amount, no more or less. It matters not _why_ they wish to rule so much as the level of that desire. All mediocre kings have either a great ambition to rule or the smallest amount possible, a crumb, if it can be described that way. All poor kings either have no ambition to rule or an ambition so powerful that they are addicted to power. King Robert Baratheon only had a crumb of ambition to rule, but this one,” pointing to the smithy where Gendry was back at work inside, “he has _none._ I honestly think he would be happy spending the rest of his life by a forge without a care in the world. Oh, someone might be able to polish him up, turn him into a halfway decent Lord of Storm’s End or even Lord of the Stormlands, but he’s got no interest in being king.”

“You didn’t tell me what the fourth option was.”

“We could always go back to King’s Landing and throw ourselves on Cersei’s mercy.”

Tyrion was dumbstruck as his face fell. “Good Gods, Varys…”

“Notice how I did not say if they were _good_ options or not,” Varys said. “But, it’s an option nonetheless.”

“But not really,” Tyrion said, the words weighing down his throat.

“Yes, not really.” Varys sighed. “A schemer with no schemes. No wonder Littlefinger got himself executed when he came up here. No one is interested in them, or sees the value of them. Imagine him trying to convince, say, Lady Arya of a way for her to gain the Iron Throne. Idiotic.”

“Maybe that’s why she was the one who executed him,” Tyrion mentioned. “So, will you be with the rest of us in the Great Keep when the fighting starts?”

“Indeed. You going to have a good supply of wine with you, I take it?”

“During a battle it is mandatory, I think.”

“Then I will join you at that time,” Varys said, looking over Tyrion’s shoulder. “For right now, I believe I will take my leave, old friend, because it appears you have a visitor.”

Tyrion turned to where he was looking and saw Serenei approach him. “Am I interrupting anything?” she asked.

“Not at all, my lady; I was just taking my leave. We’ll see each other later, old friend,” Varys said, the last sentence aimed at Tyrion.

As he left the bridge, Tyrion waved to Serenei. “What do I owe the pleasure, Serenei?”

She huddled in what appeared to be a grey woolen overcoat complete with hood that blocked out the ever-increasing cold. “Finally managed to get everything in place for the battle, all of the supplies and everything.”

“So, you’re ready for your part in this battle with the Others, then?”

She choked out a laugh at that. “Not really. We don’t have enough people to properly deal with all the wounded, especially during a loss and especially with as many people who _could_ get wounded as in our army. But, we’ll make do with what we have as always.”

“I hate to say it, but this army is not one who believes in taking prisoners. They believe in killing people and ‘recruiting’ them into their army. Not exactly knightly principles,” he concluded, rolling his eyes.

“So, not as many wounded as normal, then.”

“Likely so,” Tyrion said. “Anyway, I was asking what brought you to speak with me.”

“I decided since tomorrow night is going to be when the battle starts, we might as well trade those stories that we threatened to trade with each other when we first met,” Serenei said, as casually as if she might be describing going out on a walk in the woods rather than what to do when waiting for a battle. “You wouldn’t have any pressing engagements this evening, would you?”

“No, I wouldn’t tonight,” Tyrion said as he shook his head. “There will be one last meeting first thing tomorrow morning between the war leaders, and then everyone will be ready to be called to arms afterward.”

“All right, then,” Serenei said. “After dinner, go ahead and meet with me at the infirmary, and we’ll go get that drink that you said.”

“Very well, where would…”

“Perhaps your quarters would be the most convenient.” The words fell on him, as blunt as they were. Recovering himself, Tyrion responded, “I wouldn’t want anyone to think of you differently…”

“Slave or not, I _was _a whore in my past life, Lord Tyrion, and there have been whispers of _your_ past reputation, especially among some of the working women of the winter town here. I doubt if anyone is particularly concerned about our reputations, and I doubt those reputations would be significantly affected by a single night’s visit.” Her recitation was matter of fact and lacking any particular embarrassment.

“Ah, yes, I do see your point. After dinner, then.”

“See you then.”

As she walked off, he was still trying to figure out what her motives might be for wanting to keep him company. Normally, he might be highly suspicious, the old political instincts from King’s Landing kicking in again. However, the fact that everyone in and around Winterfell might be dead in just over a day meant Tyrion was more willing to go outside his comfort zone than he would be normally.

#

Later that evening, Tyrion walked through the door of the sept located in the courtyard just outside the Great Hall of Winterfell. As Daenerys had ordered, the sept would be the center of the infirmary for any of the wounded to come. A number of tents set up around the sept would help with the overflow of wounded, and some would be kept in the Great Keep as well.

He saw Serenei putting blankets over a couple of benches for worshipers that was being repurposed for beds. Even inside and wearing her woolen hooded cloak over what appeared to be several grey and white Essoi robes, she was still shivering from the cold. “I think you might need to find some more Northern clothing to keep out the winter,” Tyrion said. “I remember coming to this place in _summer_ some years back and feeling a chill.”

“Actually, Lady Sansa managed to pass along some winter dresses that just fit me, though when she had the time to do that I have no idea,” Serenei said. “I’ll make sure to be wearing one of those tomorrow night, however long that night goes on.” She took a look around the sept. “It seems strange for there to be a sept for the Faith of the Seven up here in Winterfell, the capital of the North.”

“This was a gift of Lord Eddard Stark, Lady Sansa’s father, to his wife Lady Catelyn,” Tyrion explained. “She was originally of House Tully in the Riverlands, and was a strong practitioner of the Faith.”

“Seems like he really cared for her, then,” she replied as she made her way towards him.

“She was a noble and caring woman,” Tyrion noted, but couldn’t resist adding, “even though she tried to have me executed for allegedly trying to kill her son Brandon. That was Littlefinger’s doing, but I never held it against her. Shall we?”

“Of course.”

#

Tyrion’s guest chambers were small but cozy. It had been set aside for Daenerys, but since she’d stayed with Jon in his chambers since arriving at Winterfell, he’d taken them over. In addition to the bed that was quite sizable for Daenerys and very sizable for Tyrion, there was a writing desk near an outside window, a chest next to the bed, and two stuffed armchairs seated next to the fireplace, with a small table in between them.

“Have a seat,” Tyrion said. “I’ll go ahead and get the fire started and break out the wine.”

“To move things along,” Serenei said, “I’ll go ahead and take care of the fire and you handle the wine.”

The Lysene woman bemused Tyrion with her willingness to get her hands sooty without hesitation, but he realized someone who could get spattered with blood during her daily routine wouldn’t mind that. “I had thought that there was no Arbor Gold to be had in this place, but two bottles appeared as if by magic. Lys produces some fine white and red vintages, if I recall correctly.”

“I wasn’t too knowledgeable about wine during my time in Lys except for being able to drink it,” Serenei joked along with Tyrion. “I’ll have to take your word on that, L… Tyrion.” She finished sparking up the fire and feeding it before she slipped her cloak off her shoulders. Using it as a blanket, she sat down in one of the armchairs.

“So, time for some questions and conversation,” Tyrion said as he poured the first drops of the Arbor Gold into two copper goblets, one for her and one for himself. With the slightest of hops, he sat in the other armchair across from Serenei and took his first drink. “Ah, excellent as always.” As he sank into the chair, he asked, “How old are you, anyway?”

“Five and twenty years,” she said. “Yourself?”

“Oh, about ten years older than yourself. I wonder, how did a former prostitute become a healer in the first place?”

“I wound up taking care of my fellow bed slaves in the pillow house I worked in,” she replied, taking a sip and adjusting her blond ponytail so she was not leaning on it. “It seemed the house masters didn’t believe in getting professional healers to care for their slaves, which was a bit ridiculous considering how much good slaves cost. I learned how to treat venereal diseases, care for those who fell pregnant and help them give birth, and care for the injuries of those who were the victims of nasty customers. By the time I left Lys, I knew as much about healing as your maesters in training, but I learned more in Meereen and here.”

“And what prompted you to leave Lys and your life in the pillow house and go to serve Queen Daenerys? Were you able to buy your freedom, or…?”

“Before I answer that, would you willing to answer how a Lannister, whose brother, as I recall correctly, murdered Queen Daenerys’ father – the rightful King of Westeros – comes to serve that same queen?”

“Ah, yes. You recall how you have heard of my… reputation for consorting with prostitutes and whores on a regular basis.” He’d already drained his goblet and topped it off before continuing. “This was not an unearned reputation. Ironically, the answer to your question is tied to the end, as of this moment, to my days as a whoremonger.”

“Ah, so this will be a taste of the legendary storytelling of Tyrion Lannister. Please, do continue.” Her ice-blue eyes sparkled with mirth. “Continue.”

“My entire life has had much of a touch of irony to it,” Tyrion said. “I was a member of a noble house where I was taught to look after family and protect it above all others. However, of the three members of my direct family growing up, my father, sister, and brother, only the last of them ever showed me affection and love.”

Serenei’s face fell at his description. “That must have been difficult. I grew up in a slave house, but I had no doubt of my mother’s love.”

“To my father Tywin, I was the ugly abomination that had murdered his beloved wife, and he believed this from the day of my birth to the day of his death,” Tyrion pronounced. “My sister came to agree with him. Despite this, and my… physical challenges, I dedicated myself to being someone of value to my family, someone of value to those in power. Eventually, I found myself serving as Hand of the King to my nephew, one of the most vicious idiots to ever wear a crown in this world. I did quite well at the game of thrones, and even managed to save King’s Landing from the ravages of an army led by Stannis Baratheon, even though I never have claimed to be a great soldier. But in the end, I thought myself to be quite a clever fellow.

“However, I fell into the trap that clever men do often by not realizing that other men are nearly as clever and far more ruthless in their desires,” he continued. “So, I found myself on trial for my life, accused by my father of poisoning my nephew the king with the assistance of my then-wife, Lady Sansa, who had sensibly decided to leave the city rather than face questions. My father accused me of this crime even though I did not commit it and he did not care if I was truly guilty or not. It was in fact, House Tyrell who was behind the assassination, even though I admit I would have gladly killed Joffrey at that point if I’d had the chance. My father even had my lover, a whore named Shae, testify against me at that trial.”

“I’m guessing that you were found guilty?”

“Your guess is correct,” Tyrion said. “It was only due to my brother that I was able to make my escape. Before I did, however, I entered my father’s chambers and found Shae in his bed. I strangled her to death, then murdered my father with a crossbow as he sat on a toilet.”

For several moments, the only sounds were the crackling of the newly started fire. Tyrion searched Serenei’s face for any signs of disgust or horror, but found none. With a grave expression, she held out her goblet to be refilled with a steady hand. Tyrion managed to refill it with a slightly unsteady hand, then set back in his chair.

Serenei drained her goblet in a few gulps, then held it out again with no change in her expression. Despite his increasingly unsteady nerves, he managed to repeat his actions of a few moments previously with no change in his steadiness.

After a shorter sip, Serenei whispered, “Do you have regrets about that, Tyrion?”

“Regarding my father, none. Shae, though…” He couldn’t meet her eyes. “If there is something that condemns me to the Seven Hells, I think it would be that act. If I could go back, I would have asked her to come with me if I could have forgiven her or left her alive in my father’s bed if I could not. It’s probably not a coincidence that I’ve not been with a woman since.” He looked up at her and, voice shaking, asked, “Am I the monster my father claimed I was?” He looked for any sign of how she felt.

Her face gave nothing away as she took another sip. “From the life I have lived and what I’ve experienced, I find that judging people is something I find difficult to do. I’ve likely done one or two things that would be equally as evil, but we might not have enough wine for me to talk of it.” She gave the smallest of smirks as she set her goblet down. “Are you in the habit of strangling your lovers?”

“She was the only woman I ever killed, other than my mother when she gave birth to me.”

“Well, that makes me feel safer tonight at least,” Serenei said.

_That _caught Tyrion’s attention and snapped him out of his fugue. _What is she japing at? _“My lady, you would seem to be a bit presumptuous in thinking we could be lovers,” Tyrion said with mock umbrage, his voice now as smooth as ever. “We’ve only just met. I would have to learn more about you before even considering the possibility.”

“Well, then, I will have to honor you with answers to more of your questions,” Serenei said, taking a mock bow as she stood up and tossed another log on the fire. “Before I do, you were going to say something about entering Queen Daenerys’ service.”

“Ah, yes,” he said as she returned to her seat, “after my… estrangement from the remainder of my family, I escaped to Essos. I was out of sorts and frankly blind drunk most of the time, and weary of anything to do with ruling or power. However, Varys, who you saw me with earlier today, found me and told of Queen Daenerys and how she had liberated the cities of Dragon’s Bay. He suggested that she was one ruler that I might not be ashamed to serve. I took a chance… and you see the result before you.”

“Inspired by a great leader,” Serenei replied. “Quite amazing. I have to say I was more inspired by her to do what I did than you, although I might not have traveled as far as you did.”

“Before I ask about that… since the subject of lovers has come up, when was the last time you were with a man, my lady?” he said, trying to be whimsical but not quite managing it.

“Two years ago. It was a captain of a ship I was trying to get to smuggle me into Volantis without being noticed by the slavers. He asked me to be his woman for the voyage as payment. It worked.” Her recounting was unconcerned, as if she was describing what she had for breakfast earlier that day.

“I see.” He drained his goblet again and then refilled it, resolving to pace himself more since the conversation was getting more in depth and required a steady hand. “What prompted _you_ to serve Daenerys? From what I saw of your meeting her, she seems to be your idol.”

He could barely tell that Serenei’s pale eyebrows furrowed as she examined him. “I wouldn’t think you would have any idea of the life of a slave, would you, My Lord?”

That question threw him for a loop, but then he remembered his interrupted voyage to Meereen with Jorah Mormont. “Actually, my lady, I was taken prisoner by slavers for a while in Essos, while I was journeying to Meereen. It was never the most pleasant of circumstances…” he said, trailing off as he withered under her skeptical glare. “Well, I’m certain it was nothing like growing up under slavery, but it was a taste.”

“A taste,” she said in acknowledgement rather than mocking. “I grew up in it. I awoke every day knowing that I was the property of someone else and went to sleep knowing that it would be the same situation the next day. Since they owned my body, it only made sense that they could rent it out to other men as they so chose, and that I would go along with it. I thought that I would live and die like that, as did my mother.” She drained her goblet again.

“What changed for you?” Tyrion said as he refilled her goblet.

“There were two things,” Serenei said. “Did I mention that I had a sister?”

“You did not.”

“Her name was Sarai,” she explained. “She was eight name days younger than me. She looked much like me. It was the practice of the pillow house masters to breed their whores with the comeliest of men to produce a new generation of bed slaves. Sarai’s father was a soldier with one of the free companies of Lys that eventually fell in love with my mother. However, when she died, he did not want the responsibility of a little girl and her big sister, so he fled for the battlegrounds of the Disputed Lands and left us in Lys. I helped raise her with the help of the other women of the house.”

He was wary of what the answer would be, but he felt compelled to ask anyway. “Where is your sister now?”

“Four years ago, the master of my house sold her to a Westerosi lord,” she said. “He owned some pillow houses in Westeros and wanted her to be a fresh face. As always, young girls from Lys are in demand.”

“My lady, there is no such thing as slavery in Westeros, even for whores,” Tyrion said.

“There is slavery by other means,” said Serenei, who seemed exasperated as his naivete. “Slave men and women have their freedom bought by the masters of Westerosi houses to work there. However, when they arrive, they are charged outrageous sums for their passage. In most cases, they are forced to work for years in those houses until those sums are paid.”

“Do you have any idea who bought her?” Tyrion said, his curiosity piqued.

“The lord himself was not there, but the buyer said that he spoke for a lord who owned several whorehouses in King’s Landing,” she said. “He was supposedly an adviser to the king. They referred to him by a nickname, Little Fellow or Little Man, something like that…”

“Littlefinger?” Tyrion said, eyes bugging out. “Lord Petyr Baelish, but they called him Littlefinger?”

Something clicked with Serenei. “Yes, yes, that was his name. Do you know him?”

“I did. We served on the Small Council together on behalf of King Joffrey.”

“Wait, you _did?” _she exclaimed, growing more worried. “What happened to him?”

“He was executed here in Winterfell, on the orders of Lady Sansa.”

“What for?”

“Apparently, he was responsible for the deaths of her aunt and uncle, and conspiring to kill her lord father,” Tyrion reported.

She shrugged at that. “All right, fair enough. What happened to his former whorehouses?”

“Well, with the extinction of the Faith Militant by my sister, I would imagine those houses are still in operation under new management.” The pieces were starting to fit together for him. “You mean to rescue her from her situation.”

Serenei nodded. “She is all the family I have left. If there is any chance I can find her, I want to take it. Sarai’s still young, still has a chance of having a good life. I’d risk anything for that. But I have to admit, it took me three years before I decided to escape, because I thought there was no other way.”

“What happened?”

She took another drink as her eyes seemed to flash back to another memory. “One day, a Red Priest from Volantis came to preach in the streets near our house. He told us of the Targaryen Dragon Queen, the Breaker of Chains who had freed the slaves of Yunkai, Astapor, and Meereen. This was a woman who had power and compassion for others… I realized that there could be another life. The priest even said that those in captivity, if they went to the lands of the Dragon Queen, they would be given their freedom.”

Tyrion eyed her skeptically. “Truly he said that?”

“Truly.” She seemed confused. “He was mistaken?”

“I don’t believe Queen Daenerys ever had such a policy spelled out, but I doubt she would ever turn away slave refugees from her lands. Actually, that sounds like a very clever policy… a way to destabilize slavery in nearby lands without resorting to invasion. In any case, you were given sanctuary in Meereen, were you not?”

She nodded. “To escape my house, I spent the night with the master of the house. When he was… distracted, I slashed his throat and started my escape. His wife, the mistress of the house, discovered me and tried to raise an alarm. To stop her, I smothered her and hid their bodies.” She stared off into the distance to a place and time he could not see. “They had three children that I orphaned. You see, Tyrion Lannister, you are not the only killer of women in this room.”

“I see,” he finally said. “This is why you accompanied the army to Westeros, to see if you could find your sister.”

She nodded. “Even if there is the slightest of chance she may be alive, I have to take it.” Her ice blue eyes bored into his green ones. “With your knowledge of King’s Landing…”

“You would like me to assist you in finding your sister,” Tyrion finished.

She nodded as she finished off her drink and set it down on the table. She got up from the chair, letting her cloak fall to the ground. “Lord Tyrion, I…”

“What do you offer?” Tyrion said, disbelieving. “Are you offering to be my camp wife on the march to King’s Landing? I assure you, I do not need to be rewarded for being a decent human being. I always said I have a soft spot for bastards, dwarves, and broken things; now that I think of it, I would add whores and former whores to that list.”

She undid the first of her robes and stepped out of the furred boots that she wore. “Maybe I’m not offering you that in exchange for anything. Maybe I’m offering you my company because I might be dead and alone, away from my family in a day, and I wanted some sort of comfort while I awaited my fate.”

Tyrion leaned back in his chair and set down his goblet. “I suppose none of us is guaranteed our lives when tomorrow night comes.”

Serenei’s robes continued to fall as she came to stand in front of Tyrion, still seated in his armchair. “I should tell you I’ve never made love to a dwarf before.”

_This is really happening. Seven bloody Hells. _“I would say that this is the first time that I would be with a Lysene woman, but I cannot be sure if that is accurate.”

She stood there in front of him, just clad in a breast band and smallclothes. “If you wanted to pretend that is the case, I would not be offended. Women like me know all about playacting.”

“Well, regardless, I…”

She now stood before him naked. There had been women of beauty that had all blended together in Tyrion’s mind so they were indistinguishable from the other. There was the young woman he thought he’d loved but his father had tricked him into thinking was another whore. There had been the comfortable beauty of Shae, and the forbidden wonder, for the briefest of moments and stolen thoughts, of his own queen, now the wife of his good friend. In that moment, Serenei of Lys banished all those images from his head.

Her gold hair hung loose down to her shoulders, and those ice-blue eyes kept him fixed in place. Her skin was ivory with a hint of blush, with a slim waist, curvaceous hips and bottom, and long, beautifully tapered legs. Her bosom was generous but not excessive, and he felt the brush of her pointed pink nipples as she kneeled down before him and kissed him first on the lips and then his chest after she’d opened his tunic.

“What are your intentions, Serenei of Lys?”

“My intention,” she said as she unbuckled his pants and slid both them and his boots down to the floor, “is to get my first glimpse of a dwarf cock.”

“Oh, you will not see a dwarf cock, but a dwarf’s cock,” he said, grinning at her, the old juices unexpectedly flowing one more time.

“Well, what’s the differe…” She softly chuckled after she totally uncovered him. “Oh, I see now.”

“That was what saved me from being gelded by the slavers in Essos,” Tyrion chuckled as he shuffled off his tunic and shirt. “They were looking for a dwarf cock, and I explained that they would not be able to pass off my cock as being one that came from a dwarf…”

She traced the scar across his face, first with a finger, and then with light, breezy kisses that ended across his mouth, making the slightest probing entry into his mouth. “It’s been a while,” she said.

“Will this be something from your heart, Serenei, or is this something from your old talents of playacting?” Tyrion said, his skepticism evident.

She took his member in both hands and stared into his eyes. “With an army of dead men coming tomorrow, does it matter?”

“It does not,” Tyrion said. With that, she engulfed him with her mouth and any of his remaining defenses crumbled.

#

He felt lighter than air afterward, in the bed with Serenei, her curled up next to him and resting her head on his shoulder. “Are you all right?” he asked.

Half-tipsy and half-sleepy, a bleary-eyed Serenei looked up at him and nodded. “I think I had enough to drink tonight to get through without a nightmare,” she said, kissing him on the nose. “Thanks for the warm bed tonight, M’lord.”

“Thanks for warming it,” he said. He nuzzled the top of her head as she drifted off to sleep. _I’m not going to analyze this,_ he thought. _I’m just going to enjoy it for what it is. Maybe I’ll have the luxury later of wondering how real it is._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, so we get a better look at one of the main OC's in this fic, Serenei of Lys. My hope is that, somewhat explicit ending aside, I created a fully formed character that has as much motivation as any of the regular GOT/ASOIAF characters. I see her as in some ways the female version of Tyrion, a smart, jaded person who sees Daenerys and her cause as hope for the garbage world that they find themselves in.
> 
> As always, I'll be happy with any kudos or comments, and in the latter case, I am more than likely to respond back. Any input on this former prostitute turned healer would be especially appreciated.
> 
> Next chapter will be the day/night just before the Battle of the Long Night, and then... Battle City, baby.


	25. Battle’s Eve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The living at Winterfell prepare to face death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, this is it, the last chapter before we get into the Battle of the Long Night. I was just hyped getting through this and finishing it up. There's a lot of moving parts, I will say that. (One note; having a character who can warg into animals is a good way to duplicate the same feeling as multiple cameras shooting a scene lol.)
> 
> [Edited 2.11.2020 - changed the order of battle slightly for logistical reasons.]

25.

**Jon**

_We’ve planned everything as well as it can be done. And something still is likely to go wrong. I just hope whatever that is, it won’t mean everyone dies._

He was staring at the map of Winterfell in the middle of the table in the Great Hall. Daenerys was standing by his side, and the table was surrounded by the war commanders of all the houses planning to take part in the evening’s battle, with the exception of the cavalry commanders for the Dothraki, Vale, and North, who had gotten their briefing last night before making their movements into their hidden positions.

“Ser Joren, Lord Howland, your scouts will be responsible for getting the word to us that the Others are coming. As soon as you have signaled, you must ride immediately to the palisades if you have any hope of safety among our lines,” Jon said. “Our orders will be for the entryways to be closed four minutes after your signal. Will that be enough time to reach safety?”

Howland nodded. “The grounds we’ll be on will be open, despite not being as close as the Wolfswood to us,” he said. “I and my men are no Knights of the Vale, but we’ll ride well enough to make it on time.”

“No difficulties,” Joren said. “Our journey will be shorter than theirs, and we already have the firelighters set up whenever the time comes.”

“I hope we don’t have to burn down the entire Wolfswood to stop them,” Jon said, his reluctance with the plan evident.  
  


“Not likely, Your Grace. In addition to the trimming that we did on the edge of the forest, we harvested trees in a line just west of our position,” he said, pointing to where it roughly was. “This will serve as a fire break, to deny the fire any fuel if it is tempted by the trees further west. That with the prevailing winds should keep the fire here where we need it.”

“Very good,” Jon replied.

“Grey Worm, you and the Unsullied will be in charge of the entryways through the palisades,” Daenerys said. “Once we see the signal that the attack is on, we will wait three minutes, no more, for our scouts to get to the entryways, but then we will signal for them to be closed. At that time, you will seal up the entryways on all four sides. Then you will come through the castle gates and station your men immediately behind those gates to defend in case they are breached. Understood?”

Grey Worm nodded. “The other men know their duties. Once we get the signal, we will seal the entrances and return to the castle.” The Unsullied subcommanders Red Flea, Low Snake, and Green Slug would command the detachments to the north, east, and south, while Grey Worm would handle the western palisades personally.

“Tyrion, you’ll be at the top of the Great Keep with our signalers, making sure our messages are received and sent to those in the castle.”

“Very well, My Queen.”

“Pardon me, Your Graces, but why would neither of you be at the castle at the start of the battle?” Lord Edmure said.

“We will both start the battle on dragonback,” Daenerys explained. “I will ride Drogon and assist our cavalry in reducing the Army of the Dead from their rear. The king, riding Rhaegal, will fly nearby to watch for any threats to me and for the approach of the Night King on Viserion. It will likely take the two of us to destroy him.” Edmure and the others nodded in understanding.

Jon pointed to the walls of Winterfell. “On the west wall, the main bannermen of House Stark will be joined by the men of the Watch, Houses Cerwyn, Locke, and Dustin, and some of the Freefolk. Edd, you and Arya will be supervising that section.”

“It’ll be done,” Arya said, her focus as sharp as Valyrian steel as she scanned the map. Jon did everything to hide the dread building up in him. _Never thought I’d have to command Arya in the field,_ he thought, trying not to see her as the tiny girl of her memory but the toughened, capable young woman of the present.

“On the north wall, Houses Glover, Umber and Mormont, will man the walls there with the majority of the Freefolk. Tormund and Lord Glover will oversee command of those forces.” He saw the two men facing each other across the table, Glover glowering in barely hidden contempt while Tormumd projected an attitude of unflappable cool.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Glover finally replied.

“We’re behind you, King Crow,” said Tormund.

“Ser Jorah, you will be on the northern wall as well,” Daenerys said.

“Understood,” he said, looking pleasantly surprised. While Lady Mormont’s stand-offish attitude toward her older cousin had not lessened as she still remembered how he’d disgraced her uncle with his actions, she had, unprompted, offered that Jorah could fight alongside the fellow warriors of House Mormont “unless your queen has other orders,” she said.

Jon pointed to the south wall. “The south wall will be guarded by the Riverlanders and the remainder of House Karstark not on scout duty. Lord Edmure, I will have you oversee that section of the wall alongside Lady Alys.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” both the Riverlands lord and the seven and ten redhaired leader of House Karstark.

“The east wall will be defended by House Manderly, Tallheart, Ryswell, and the other Northern houses,” Jon said. “Lord Wyllis, you will supervise that section of our defenses with the assistance of Brienne of Tarth. Ser Jaime will also provide assistance.” A chorus of “Yes, Your Graces,” emanated from them.

Jon pointed to the section of the map for the godswood. “As well as our battlements, there will be a second front to this battle. The Fiery Hand and Ser Beric will be here to guard Lord Brandon,” he said as Ser Beric and Kinvara looked on. “From what my brother has told me, the Night King will eventually come after him once he senses where he is. At that time, I and some of the others will converge here to slay him. If he is slain, then the battle is over.”

“Are there any further questions?” Daenerys asked the assembled group. “Very well. Commanders, I would recommend that your soldiers should receive their dinner rations early this evening. It will be a long night ahead, certainly. Thanks to you all.”

With a smattering of “Your Graces,” the crowd dispersed to their different tasks, leaving Jon and Daenerys by themselves in the hall. “What now for you?” Jon said.

"The dragons will come to the south just before winter town soon,” she replied. “When they arrive, I will check on them. You can meet us there after you address the soldiers, and we can go to the cave until it is time.”

“Soldiers. A good portion of them aren’t even six and ten and more than a few older than sixty,” Jon commented. _On them rest so much._

“This is their home and their lives, and the lives of their families, that they are defending,” Daenerys said. “I’m not a northerner, but marrying you and being around them has given me some idea of who they are. They will stand and fight, this I know.”

They embraced each other then, half monarchs facing tasks as heavy as the northern mountains and half like any young couple wary yet hopeful for their future ahead. “Will that armor work for you?”

“Missandei said she’ll help me with it, although I don’t think fitting armor is something she’s used to. Wait, she did tell me she helped mend something with Grey Worm’s armor once…”  
  


“I’m sure it will work out,” he said, laughing aloud at the mental image of his queen and her handmaiden wrangling a cuirass over her head.

“I hope it will all work out, and I hope that we will have a chance to laugh about how ridiculous I look as a conquering warrior.”

“Well, you might _feel_ ridiculous, but certainly not look it,” Jon insisted. “You seem to match the old paintings of Visenya as she helped Aegon the Conquerer take over Westeros.”

“I would be flattered, but isn’t it the task of a husband to compliment his wife?” she smiled as she cupped the side of his face with her hand.

“Task or not, it is the whole truth,” Jon said, bringing her closer and covering her hand on his face with his own.

“I imagine you will have some tasks before the men and women go to their posts,” Dany said.

“Aye. Bran and Sam wish for me to meet with them and Melisandre to discuss what will happen tonight in the godswood, and Bran’s role in all of this.”

An unqueenly snort escaped Dany’s nose as she shook her head. “Remember, if the Red Witch suggests stabbing me in the heart to bring this Lightbringer to life…”

“…I’ll start making alternative plans even before I take her head, I know,” Jon replied. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Dany said. Her eyes brimmed with tears as she gazed at him, endless possibilities for their fates swimming before those eyes. “My dragonwolf, I know you would die for me in a moment if needed, and I would do the same. Let’s try and live for each other instead.”

“I’d desire nothing else,” Jon said. “Both for us, and those who are family to us.” Their kiss felt more like a prayer than a farewell.

#

_All the wisdom of the ancients seems to amount to nothing,_ Jon thought.

He was seated in the Winterfell library in front of the massive table that Sam and Bran had covered with books. They at least had the decency to look sheepish, but Melisandre, who stood off to the side, flashed a sly smile as if they had revealed the secrets of the Universe to him.

“Sam, Melisandre,” he said, succeeding in not shouting but less successful in keeping the irritation out of his voice, “my Northern father made sure that I knew my letters and numbers, as well as the history of Westeros. You well remember that, Bran. However, I never considered myself to be a scholar, nowhere near your level, Sam. So, sometimes I fear I don’t understand these subjects as well as others. If you all would permit me to do so, I’d like to summarize all that you and the Red Priestess here have told me about the Others and what can be done to stop them.”

“Sure, Your Grace, of course,” Sam said, a bit nervous. _It’s been a while since he’s seen me this angry,_ Jon thought.

“So, to summarize,” Jon began. “Our legends tell us of the Azor Ahai, who forged a mighty sword to fight against the forces of darkness. It was not able to be tempered until it was plunged into the heart of his beloved… wife, I guess, Nissa Nissa, where it caught aflame. Supposedly, she was a believer in the Lord of Light, the same as Azor Ahai.”

“This is the truth,” Melisandre said.

“However, we don’t know exactly _who_ this person was, or where he lived,” Jon said. “We don’t know for certain if he was Essoi, or someone who lived in Westeros – because there have been other people who have called this man by other names, correct?”

“Yes, that’s right,” Sam said.

“We don’t know if this Last Hero of Westerosi fame, the one that Old Nan used to tell stories about to me and my brothers and sisters when we were growing up, is the same thing as Azor Ahai. Because _he _was the one who supposedly fought off the Others.”

“Yes,” said Bran. With how distant Bran seemed then, Jon expected his eyes to turn white at any moment.

“But do we know if this Azor Ahai _did_ fight against the Others, the Night King, or not?” Jon said, his voice slowly rising.

“In the flames, I did see Azor Ahai strike down the Other with Lightbringer,” breathed Melisandre. “I saw it.”

“But it didn’t kill him, right?” Jon said. “If it had killed him, Bran the Builder, our ancestor, wouldn’t have had to build the Wall with the magic of the… Children of the Forest? Is that right, Sam?”

“Um, yes, the books all seem to indicate the Children and giants assisted in the building of the Wall…”

“And for all we know, Bran the Builder might have been The Last Hero, but there’s no certainty about that, is there?” Jon said.

“Not in the books,” Sam said, shaking his head.

“I have not seen any visions clearly regarding that except for Azor Azhi tempering the sword,” Bran said.

“I know in my heart that Azor Ahai was the Last Hero who defeated the Night King,” Melisandre said with no hesitation.

“And any of that wouldn’t make a difference, because none of that _killed_ him, and so my ancestor apparently needed to build a massive wall to keep them out rather than deal with it once and for all,” Jon concluded, his voice rising. “And there needed to be a Night's Watch to keep an eye out for the Others coming again. Essentially, we have little more than what we started off with at the beginning of all this. So much for prophecy directing the lives of men, but given my experience with it, this shouldn’t be a surprise.”

Bran ducked his head down and slumped in his chair. “I’m sorry that I have not been able to see more, Jon,” he said, his voice a croak. “The further back in time events happened, the more difficult it is for me to see them. And I have been trying to marshal my efforts as well to keep an eye on the Others and strengthen my ability to try and warg into the wights and other undead.”

“Bran, Bran,” Jon said, his voice softening as he jumped up from his chair. He came around the table, pointedly not looking at Melisandre as he did, and stood behind Bran’s chair to pat his shoulders with both hands. “You can’t blame yourself for that… it would be like if you had learned to fly, it would be madness to be angered at you for not being able to travel to the moon and the sun. Your abilities are an extra benefit for us, Brandon, but do not think everything rests on you.”

Bran looked up over his right shoulder to Jon. “However, if the Night King is able to take me over, it puts not only our whole family at risk, but at least all the souls on Westeros and perhaps beyond,” he intoned. “Much does weigh on me, whether you or I wish it or not.”

Jon leaned down and touched his forehead to Bran’s. “I will watch out for you, Brother, no matter what. I’ll not leave you unprotected against the dead. The Fiery Hand will guard you first, and then, when the Night King comes, I will be there.”

“There’s another thing,” Bran said. “The Three-Eyed-Raven before me showed me the Children of the Forest making the Night King. As part of the magic they did to create him, they drove a dragonglass shard into his heart. I think it was a similar process to what the Children used to keep Uncle Benjen from turning into a wight as he was dying. If I were in combat with the Night King, I’d try to find out what would happen if you took that dragonglass out of his chest.”

Jon laughed in disbelief. “Just take it out of his chest, sounds so easy.” He made no effort to hide the sarcasm.

“Well, not _easy,” _Sam agreed. “But it does seem logical.”

“So what, cut off his armor, if any, chop him up into pieces and pull it out?” Jon chuckled. “Sounds like a job for a White Wolf, at least.”

“Or a Secret Dragon,” quipped Bran.

Jon groaned and ruffled his brother’s hair, to his embarrassment. “Some soulless mystic you are.” He turned to Sam. “Well, make sure that you and he get rested and fed. It will be a Long Night in more ways than one.”

“Dark and full of terrors as well,” Melisandre replied, her smile… _all-knowing? As if_.

Jon loomed over the Red Witch. “Where will you be in all this, Witch? Hiding someplace or with a dagger to my brother’s throat, seeking to sacrifice him for the greater good?”

“His sacrifice would not have an effect on the Night King, truth be told,” Melisandre said. As she spoke, it seemed as if her natural haughtiness was draining from her body as she slumped against one of the bookcases, bracing herself with an arm as her eyes darted from left to right, not settling anywhere. “I might have to seek… inward for a solution. As I saw in the flames, this will be my last day in this world. Until then, I will be near the godswood and use my abilities to protect your brother as best as can be done. The Night King’s death will bring the dawn, without doubt.”

“Begging your pardon, but I will believe your words when they meet your actions,” Jon said, grey eyes boring into her. He turned to Sam. “I have to address everyone soon. Will you be able to get Brandon to the godswood later?”

Sam nodded. “Ser Beric and I will, and then I’ll be assisting Maester Wolkan and the Lysene woman with the wounded.”

“Good,” Jon said. “I’m going now to speak to everyone. Best to do it now before the night falls. They are coming tonight, right, Bran?”

“They are,” Bran said with complete certainty. 

“Well, I guess that’s all for the good,” He replied. “It would be awkward if I gave the talk and they didn’t show up.” He clapped first Sam and then Bran on the shoulder. “I’ll see you afterward.”

#

As he trudged up the steps to the Great Keep’s roof, Jon turned to Dany who was beside him. “It feels a bit silly to have me on top of the keep talking down to everyone else.”

“Well, you are a _king,_ so those are the type of things that kings tend to do, give speeches to their people at the appropriate times,” Dany said with a smile. “Besides, most everyone in the castle will be able to see you and here you from there, so it’ll be easier to talk to everyone at once.”

_“You_ tend to do better with the speeches. It should be you giving the speech,” Jon said.

“Don’t underestimate yourself; you do quite well yourself, inspiring other people. They sense all that honor and compassion in you that I sensed the minute you met me and started to frustrate me to no end.” She stopped them near the top of the staircase and brushed off some stray lint off his tunic. “This is your home. It should be you who addresses them before the fight. You’ll do fine.”

“All right,” he said. He encircled her shoulders with his arms, pulling her in for an extended kiss, more comfort and reassurance than ardor, but with no less emotion than their private embraces. “You’re coming up with me, though,” Jon said after they broke off the kiss.

“It’s a good thing I’m not afraid of heights,” Dany joked, laying a peck on his lips before walking with him the last few steps up to the roof.

Even though they wore no crowns, both monarchs were quite visible to those both below and on the battlements. In addition to his blackened steel cuirass with the red Targaryen sigil across its chest, Jon wore a black leather tunic, trousers, boots, and heavy gloves. He also had on a crimson woolen cloak with a black Targaryen sigil on the back, but he planned to set it aside whenever the fight would begin. Dany wore her Targaryan-sigil cuirass over a whitish-black furred coat and black woolen dress. She now had black furred boots similar to her white ones, and Jon had insisted she cover her hands with a sturdy pair of black leather gloves – “the winds up above Winterfell will start giving you frostbite before you know it,” he said.

As he came to the west-facing battlements atop the keep, Jon saw all eyes turning toward him from both below in the courtyards of Winterfell and on top of the battlements of the walls.

“On the eve of many battles, commanders will make mighty speeches to their men to convince them of the righteousness of their causes and the need for shedding blood. This will not be one of those speeches.” Jon’s thick, rumbling Northern brogue carried well in the chill winter air to those now listening to them. “The purpose of our fight here is plainly simple, even if how we will win the fight is not so simple.

He pointed to the right, directly north of the castle. “The Army of the Dead will be here by tonight,” Jon said. “They intend to kill all those inside and around these castle walls, and recruit their fallen bodies to serve as unthinking soldiers in their army. Our purpose is to defeat these Others, to save not only our lives, but those of our parents and grandparents, our brothers and sisters, our children and grandchildren, and our friends and neighbors here and to the south.

“Life and death - that is what the stakes of this fight are. The living versus the dead. A companion of mine once said that death is the final enemy, one that all men and women eventually succumb to. Some of you today will fall as well. But, not all of us will. The race of men will continue to live on, and it is up to each and every one of you to fight for it.” His eyes met that of Arya, down in the courtyard and well-armed to the teeth. “When death comes for us, we will tell him, ‘not today.’”

“I and your queen will fight by your side, whether on the ground… or up in the skies above,” Jon concluded. “I know all of you will do your part when the time comes. We can win this fight, and we will win it.” He looked down and around him at the men and women of the castle. There was no cheering, no sound, but all eyes were on him and here or there were a few nods of acknowledgement at his words. “Rest and eat now while you can, for it will be a long night. But, watch and listen for the call to arms. It will come sooner than you expect. I thank you all.”

As his words faded, first a few and then more and more men and women drew their weapons and raised them in silent salute to their king and queen. Then, after all those in attendance had their weapons raised, he heard Arya call out in a piercing, ringing voice, “WHO HOLDS THE NORTH?”

“WE DO! WE DO!” the shouts rang out from the walls.

“WHO HOLDS THE NORTH?” Arya and a growing number of commanders yelled out again.

“WE DO! WE DO!” the growing chorus growled.

Eventually, Jon joined in with the chants, raising Longclaw high above his head for all to see. After one final roar from the defenders, the echoing words faded and were replaced with the clink of metal and creak of wood as weapons were put away and everyone began to move on with their tasks for the day.

Jon turned to find that Sansa and Tyrion had come to join Dany and he at the top of the keep. “Well, Your Graces, that was about as well received as could be expected. What now?”

Jon nodded. “Tyrion, we’ll review the signals with you and the others who will be with you and us. Then I’ll do one last check with the other commanders here before the queen and I join the dragons.” He turned to Sansa. “All of the wagon trains gone?”

Sansa nodded. “The last of them left for White Harbor before sundown yesterday.”

“Good, thank the Gods there will only be a few of you to look out for, then. Sansa, can you check with the kitchens, make sure everyone gets fed before sundown? I fear we might not get a chance the closer we get to the night.”

“Of course, Jon.”

“And then get yourself over back here and stay inside, please,” Jon said. “Hopefully you won’t see anyone but live people for the whole night.”

“Hopefully. If not…” she replied, reaching behind and pulling out two dragonglass daggers that she’d apparently tucked into a belt behind her back. They had bone handles and dragonglass blades about half a foot long. “A present from Arya. All she said was ‘stick them with the pointy end.’ Well, I might be able to manage that.”

Jon reached behind Sansa to cradle the back of her head as he kissed her forehead. “You can manage a lot more than that, trust me.”

#

**Jaime**

Jaime stalked through the southern edge of the courtyard as the sun started to make its retreat over the western walls, so on edge that it would appear to someone observing him that every step he took was on a naked blade. He no longer remembered exactly how many battles he’d participated in, never mind how many sword fights he’d had or tournaments he’d competed in. If there was a time before a fight where he was this nervous, he could not remember it.

_But you’re in a strange land, Kingslayer, not with those you’ve fought besides in the past. And you’ve never fought men who’re already dead. _And_ you’re down one hand that you used to have. Looks like you’re about to find out what value the best one-handed swordsman in Westeros has in a fight against the dead. At least they let Brienne be my minder rather than those bloody Unsullied._

“Ser Jaime,” he heard from behind. Brienne was in full armor, Oathkeeper by her side, as she hurried up to him. “Did you talk with Wyllis Manderly?”

“His men are ready,” he said. “Wyllis isn’t some… mighty warrior, but he knows his men and knows how to command.” He now looked up and locked eyes with her, gold hand pointing. “Listen, though. If things go bad, or he goes down, you need to take over, not me.”

“Ser Jaime…” she started, her skepticism evident.

“The Northerners don’t trust me farther than they could throw me,” Jaime cut her off. “Under the circumstances, I can’t blame them – how they don’t throw things at my brother whenever he shows up is something of a mystery to me. You’re not a Northerner, but at least they trust you.”

“All right, I will, but you need to stick by my side and let me know if I’m overlooking anything. Serving as a general is something different than just serving as a sworn sword.”

“Agreed.”

They looked around themselves. They were in between the stables and the smithy near the corner of the western and southern walls. Most of the activity in the courtyard not involving people crossing to other sections of the castle involved those servicing the half-dozen large slingshot catapults now fully constructed and equipped with their soon-flaming projectiles. “What were you looking for?” she asked.

“I was just checking the other walls, making sure that none of those assigned to our walls were situated on a different location than where they’re supposed to be. It happens a lot more during battles than you might think,” Jaime explained. “It looks like all of the sigils and fighters are in the right places, though…”

He suddenly stopped in the middle of his sentence when he heard a noise from the smithy. That was a surprise to him; all of the workers and laborers getting things ready for the battle had completed their tasks and made sure to get their weapons ready for their tasks defending the castle. The only exception to them was the kitchen servants, and they already had their weapons nearby and would be reporting to their positions after supper was served in the early evening. _So, there shouldn’t be anyone there…_

The next sounds were clearer: A woman’s desperate cries and another, a man, grunting loudly as something clattered to the ground and the sounds of what appeared to be wrestling. _Bloody Seven Hells_, he thought as he strode to the smithy as Brienne hurried after him. “What…?”

“For fuck’s sake, some of these fools can’t wait to molest some poor unwilling girl until even before the fight. Maybe some of these cunts are afraid they won’t be alive to rape another,” Jaime said.

As they walked in, the female cries picked up until she let out what sounded like a howl, the man moaning as Jaime pinpointed the noise coming from a shut door in the back. The split second after he lunged at the door to open it with his gold hand, his left on the hilt of his sword, he heard two things that horrified him – the cackle of a young woman and Brienne saying, “Jaime, wait-“

At the next split second, the door flew open and Brienne skidded to a stop next to Jaime. They saw a nude Arya Stark, a triumphant grin on her face, as she straddled and ground herself into the lap of an equally nude Gendry Waters. Sporting a few scratches across his chest, he was seated up enough that he’d fixed Arya with a level gaze Jaime could only describe as dumbstruck.

In a third split second, Arya noticed the noise and door flying open and with a loud shriek, rolled to her right-hand side away from them as well as Gendry, who appeared to be frozen in place in shock and very much aroused. She crouched and curled up into a ball at first, but there was pure murder in her eyes and a clenched jaw grinding teeth when she looked up at him and Brienne.

Arya leaped to her feet and stomped to the door still unclothed, her modesty either totally lacking or distracted by their intrusion.

  
“Lady Brienne, Ser Jaime, thank you for your concern,” she grunted, taking hold of the door, “but fuck off.” She slammed the door shut and Jaime and Brienne heard the scrape of something heavy being shoved in front of the door.

“Well, that was bloody embarrassing,” muttered Brienne as she backed away from the door. For a moment, Jaime didn’t move as he thought _Gods, it’s happening again._

“Ser Jaime? Jaime! The free show is over,” Brienne shout-whispered sarcastically, waving for him to join her outside.

As he quick-timed it out of there to join her, his face was screwed up in distaste. “Gods, you think I’m that degenerate? She’s about Myrcella’s age.”

“Then…”

“That boy in there, he’s Robert’s bastard, right?” Jaime whispered, motioning for her to join him next to the stables and away from easy eavesdropping from anyone. “I’d heard about him, but… fuck, he looks exactly like the old whoremonger fifty pounds lighter and without the beard. And that… _fighting pupil_ of yours, the Stark girl, she’s the ghost of her aunt.”

“Your point is…?” said an exasperated Brienne.

“So, pardon me for my memories of his father getting cuntstruck over her aunt and the rebellion as a result more than twenty years ago, starting the decline of Westeros in the process!” he hissed at her. “You weren’t old enough, but I still remember all of it, and it was a nightmare from beginning to end. A bad omen today if I ever saw it.”

Brienne’s mouth was open in surprise, now comprehending his action. She leaned down to him and whispered in his ear, “It is a good thing you choose to be a knight rather than a soothsayer or prophet, because you only have a talent for the former. I think you are misreading the signs here.”

“What are you talking about?”

“If I recall correctly – and please feel free to correct me if I misspeak – but the cause of Robert’s Rebellion was the fact that Lyanna was taken by Rhaegar Targaryen after she’d been betrothed to Robert. As King Jon told us, she chose Rhaegar over Robert, and that started everything for good and bad.” She smirked and met Jaime’s eyes. “I’m a maid and have not yet had the experience, so maybe you can enlighten me. Did it seem like our Lyanna was rejecting the advances of our Robert?” She began to walk toward the Great Keep. “Come on, you said you were going to meet your brother before the fighting started, right?”

“Ahhh, heheh,” Jaime replied, “You’ve got nothing else to say about that? If I recall, you promised her mother your protection – I bid you to do that myself.”

Casually spinning around, Brienne appeared to be enjoying his discomfort. “Again, I might be not be as experienced as you in the subtleties of romantic behavior, Ser Jaime, but it appeared she had matters very much in hand.”

“All right, all right.” _The wench is having too much fun with this._ “After we eat, let’s go find my brother and your squire. I might need that drink.”

#

**Jon**

Jon was about to make his way up a flight of stairs to the western wall when he saw Samwell waiting for him at the foot of the stairs. “My brother OK?”

Samwell nodded nervously. “I managed to convince him to eat something before we rolled him in front of the heart tree,” he said. “Ser Beric and the fire people are with him now. They’re something of a fright. I was about to head off to the infirmary after talking with you.”

“OK, good.” He looked Samwell over from head to toe. “Where’s your family’s sword?”

“Heartsbane? Oh, I loaned that to Ser Jorah a bit ago. He’ll be on the front lines, not me, so I thought he could make better use of it? Don’t worry, though, I’m not going to be unarmed.” From the back of his belt, he pulled out a dragonglass dagger twice the size of the ones Sansa showed him and a one-handed dragonglass hatchet.

“I’m glad. Listen,” he told him as they began up the stairway, “if any of your patients in the infirmary die, you’ll need to burn their bodies immediately. Make sure you have fire pits ready for the time…”

“Already done, just outside the sept,” Sam said.

“We can’t take the chance of the Night King reviving any of our former wounded and turning them against us,” Jon said. “I’m counting on you to protect the living wounded from the dead ones, if need be.”

“I’ll do everything I can, Jo… Your Grac…”

“Hells’ sake, it’s Jon when it’s the two of us, remember? Anyway, I know you’ll do fine.”

They got up to the top of the wall to see Edd leaning forward against the battlements, alternately glaring out into the Wolfswood and to the left, where the members of the Night’s Watch had taken positions. “Edd,” Jon said.

Edd turned around, the smallest hint of a smile visible as he saw his old comrades. “Samwell, Your Grace.”

“How are the lads?” Jon asked, coming to stand near Edd and looking out over the Wolfswood himself, Sam on his right hand side doing the same. “I still can’t believe there’s only 200 left.”

“They’re holding up,” Edd said, turning back to the forest. “Our duty is to fight the Others, so that’s what we’re doing here, except it isn’t on the Wall, is all.”

“Yo… Jon, I’m wondering something,” Samwell said. “After the Others are defeated, what will happen to the Night’s Watch?”

“Assuming we’re not all dead by the end of this,” Edd chortled.

“Not all of us are going to die, I’m sure of that,” Sam said. “What _would_ happen to it? First and then later its purpose was to protect the realms of men from the Others, but they’d be gone and there’s a massive hole in the Wall? Since the Freefolk are our allies now, it wouldn’t make sense for the Watch to protect Westeros from _them.”_

“Not too much incentive to sit around on a Wall with a hole in it and do nothing but piss off it and get your otherwise non useful cock frostbitten, unless you’re trying to avoid the executioner’s block,” said Edd.

“I’ve been thinking a _little_ about that,” Jon said. “Maybe if the Watch had a slightly different purpose, different rules, perhaps...” He shook his head. “Anyways, once this is over, I’ll give more thought to it. Where’s my sister?”

“Arya, you mean? She said she had some business to take care of, but that she’d be back in a bit,” Edd said.

That caused Jon to raise his eyebrows, but otherwise he put it out of his mind. “I’ll send along some of the others not with any of the other banners or groups, like Sandor Clegane.”

“The Hound’s here? Ugly fucker, but he can fight, so I’d be able to use him,” Edd said. “The boys will be ready, trust me.”

“All right,” Jon nodded. The three one-time brothers of the Watch stared out into the forest for a long moment, until it was Samwell who broke the silence.

“Whichever one of us is left in the end, they should remember to burn the rest,” he almost whispered.

“Sounds like a plan,” Jon said. They looked at each other one last time, the weight of the oncoming darkness starting to settle in on them. “Take care of yourselves, lads,” he said as they parted.

#

**Brienne**

She was surprised at how tense she was as she followed Jaime to the Great Keep.

It wasn’t like she hadn’t been in a fight before… _but never a _battle_, never something involving thousands of men packed in together and swinging for each other._ That had been why she was reluctant to suddenly take command of their section – she knew how to fight and to teach people how to fight, but commanding people to fight was an entirely different affair. _Jaime _knew plenty about commanding men and fighting, but she’d have to agree that Northerners would more likely take orders from a woman than a Lannister.

Then there was the whole prospect of fighting dead people, having people you fought beside dying and then you having to fight against _them,_ even though from what King Jon had said, as wights they were no longer the people they had been. If that prospect worried Jaime, he said or did nothing to indicate it. She knew there was a limit to him, where he could be broken just the same as everyone else – she’d seen it when they were captives to the Boltons. But everyone had those limits, and she wondered how many would be pushed past them tonight.

There had been the rousing cheers after the king’s speech, but now the castle was backed to the brim with men and women darting back and forth, making sure the catapults in the courtyard were ready, that there were enough dragonglass-tipped arrows for all of the archers stationed on the walls and the nearby towers, and making sure they were in the right positions for the fight ahead. Since the call to arms had not happened just yet, there were some people looking for any distraction from what was to come in a few hours. The scene in the smithy was likely being repeated amongst more than a few male and female warriors, hopefully by mutual agreement, although neither she nor anyone else would be able to watch over everyone’s behavior.

Thankfully, she’d not been troubled too much by the Freefolk leader since he returned from the Wall. There had been an awkward meeting soon after he arrived, when he mentioned that “The Big Woman,” as he was fond of calling her, “was looking as beautiful as ever.” She had managed to brush him off, thankfully, hoping that her disinterest and non-reaction to his hints would be enough for him to get the message. Thankfully, the reunion with his daughters and son had been something of a distraction to him. Just before they entered the inner courtyard to the Great Keep, she thought he could see Tormund and the even taller son Toregg near the northern walls with the other Freefolk, indulging in some pre-fight drinking games and songs to pass the time.

“My worry is that everyone gets too drunk before the start of the battle and then we’ll be in a mess,” Brienne said as they approached the keep.

Jaime turned back to her before stepping through the main doorway. “Everyone needs a little bit of extra courage, liquid or otherwise, before facing death – in this case, literal death, I guess,” he said, spreading his arms wide to point to everyone around them. “The trick is to make sure you are at the perfect balance between not drunk enough and too drunk to function.”

“And of course, everyone will be able to reach _that_ limit without going over it,” Brienne said, not able to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

“Actually, the fact that our good king and queen and our… Three-Eyed-Raven, whatever he wishes to call himself, is thinking that the dead should be here early in the evening. So, the majority of our soldiers won’t have time to get drunk enough to go over their limits.” He gestured toward the open door to the keep with his real hand. “Shall we? Tyrion said that they’re meeting in a hall on the ground floor.”

Brienne followed him through the main entrance and then saw the open doorway to one of the meeting halls.

There was a roaring fire in the back hearth of the hall, so large it almost took up a third of the wall space. Off to the left-hand side, there was a long wooden table filled with flagons and jugs of wine and ale ready for consumption. A whole cluster of people sat in sturdy wooden armchairs scattered in front of the fireplace, and all of them had a variety of glasses and mugs in hand. In the center was a surprisingly relaxed Tyrion. “Brother, welcome. Grab a tankard or glass and have a seat for a while,” he said. “It’s not the worst quality wine I’ve ever had, but it’s not that good either. Well, all of us have to make due in our own ways.”

As Jaime headed over to the table, she glanced at who was there among the crowd. Tyrion was flanked on either side by Lady Sansa and the Lysene woman… Serenei, she thought her name was. Missandei was having a conversation with Sansa, but had to sit across from her as the massive presence of Ghost lay at the right side of her feet, appearing utterly bored with the chatterings of humans but watchful over any possible threat to his master’s sister. Further to the left, she saw Podrick and Bronn chatting with each other, as well as the occasional aside to their former Lannister lord. She also saw Lord Varys, sitting in a chair a couple of paces behind Tyrion, sipping on his own goblet but rarely speaking to anyone but Tyrion.

“Brienne, have at least _something_ to drink,” Jaime said as he passed a glass to her.

“No, no thanks, Ser Jaime…” she began, waving it away.

_“Please, _I insist,” Jaime said, slipping it into her other hand. _“One_ drink, at least. We’ll be off to the battlements soon enough.”

“Ummm, _all right._ One drink, at least.” As she accepted the goblet, she looked over at Podrick, who had a tankard in his own hand. “That’s _one_ drink, Podrick, don’t you get unsteady before the fight,” she insisted.

“Yes, My Lady,” Podrick chirped up, raising his tankard in salute.

“Hopefully the Dothraki and other cavalry managed to grab some wine before they headed out into the woods,” Tyrion said. “Poor bastards must be freezing right now, especially the Dothraki.”

She and Jaime pulled up chairs to sit down, Jaime across from his brother and Brienne across from Sansa and next to Missandei. Brienne looked down at Ghost with an uncertain smile at the direwolf that appeared much heavier than her. “You have a guest, it appears.”

Sansa stroked Ghost’s head as she smiled in turn. “Before he went with the queen to the dragons, he had a talk with this one, said he needed to watch over me in case of trouble. Ghost looked like he understood every word. It’s times like this that I do miss my own direwolf, Lady. I had her for such a short time, but I bonded with her almost immediately.”

“Perhaps if this one finds an attractive female direwolf, there might be the chance of another,” Brienne said.

“Perhaps,” Sansa said, melancholy overtaking her at thoughts of the past and possible future. “If that ever happened, I don’t know. I almost feel like Lady was _my_ direwolf, as some dragons were _the_ dragons for the Targaryen lords of the past. Perhaps that would be something for any of my future children.”

“That would be wonderful to see,” Brienne said.

“…personally, I think there’s a chance that we could all survive this,” Tyrion said. “I like to be optimistic.”

“In the face of literal _death,_ or at least the dead,” Bronn grunted back. “I’m not quite that optimistic.”

_“You_ said that you had a better chance of surviving here than at King’s Landing!” Jaime laughed.

“I said I had a _better _chance than at King’s Landing, I didn’t say I had a good chance,” scoffed Bronn.

Serenei examined Brienne’s full armor from head to toe, trying to take in something she didn’t quite comprehend. “Pardon me, Brienne? You… are dressed as a knight? But a lady instead?”

“Technically, I am a lady because I come from House Tarth,” Brienne said. “I always wanted to be a soldier, a fighter, and I’m thankful my father eventually allowed for my training, even though I could never be a knight.”

“Why’s that? I don’t know too much about knights, other than I had a few of them as clients back in Lys,” Serenei said. “They’d never talk too much about their work… when they were with me.”

Brienne did a double take at that, wondering if she was trying to be provocative in any way, but she’d been too matter of fact for that. “It’s just that women are not allowed to be knights, is all,” she said. “The rules say…”

“There’s no _law_ that say a woman can’t be knighted,” Jaime spoke up. “Sure, it’s been _tradition_ that knighthood is not conferred upon women, but nowhere in the laws of Westeros does it say that women cannot be knighted.” He emptied his goblet before continuing. “There is a difference between laws that kings, queens, lords, and ladies make and the traditions that everyone follows because they… just _agree_ to them, is all. With the latter, you can agree with them, or disagree with them, as your preference.”

_What is the man’s game? _she thought. _He’s not… no, he’s making another bloody jape at my expense, the lion bastard. Don’t show anything… don’t act like it hurts when it does… _“What are you…?”

“Deep in your heart of hearts, you always wanted to be a knight,” Jaime said, his green eyes blazing with his gaze as he pointed at her with his gold hand. Tyrion, now spellbound by the conversation, forgot his talk with Podrick and Bronn and refilled first his goblet and then walked over and did the same for his brother.

Jaime took a drink as he rose up from his seat, facing her. “It’s painfully obvious, you’ve done everything to live up to being an ideal knight that _I_ can think of. Let’s be honest, you’d be considered an ideal knight except for the fact that you haven’t been knighted.”

Now she frowned at him, still expecting some cruel joke – an adult equivalent of the dance back in Tarth when Renly had to rescue her. “You’re japing,” she said in a voice made of stone. “Stop it.”

He downed his drink, tossed the goblet off to the side with a tinkle of broken glass, and laid his left hand on Widow’s Wail’s hilt. _“Any knight_ can make another knight,” he insisted, punctuating each word with a point of his golden hand. _“That_ is the law. It says nothing about _who_ can be made knight.” Jaime looked around the room as he sensed all extra conversation stopping and everyone, even the direwolf, staring at him in disbelief. “I have seen or heard of cripples, weaklings in mind or body, or pure human trash being knighted for coin or even worse purposes. In comparison, this will be a righteous deed.”

“Brother,” Tyrion said. “You’re not saying…”

“Your queen… how did she put it? She said she wanted to break the wheel of Westeros, bring a whole new order to the ways of this land. Am I right in that, Missandei?” he said, spinning to face both Tyrion and Missandei in turn as Brienne sat rooted in her seat, unable to move despite a small voice in her head saying _run before you get hurt._

“I believe that is accurate, Ser Jaime,” Missandei said with certainty. “She wants a better world for all.”

“Well, I can at least get started shattering one of those spokes right bloody now.” He turned to Brienne with the hilt of Widow’s Wail firmly in his grasp. “Kneel,” he said to her.

She set down her goblet on the floor. “I don’t want th…”

“Yes, you do,” Jaime said, his eyes looking into her soul. “You do. And no one here in this castle deserves it more.”

Her jaw fell open. _This is really happening. Is it happening? Is it…_

There was only the scrape of Brienne’s chair across the floor and the _clack_ of her armored knee against the cobblestones of the room as she knelt before a man who had become the center of her thoughts despite herself. Then there was the scrape of the rippling Valyrian steel sword as it left its scabbard and hung in Jaime’s hand by his waist.

“No need for an elaborate ceremony,” Jaime almost whispered. He touched his blade to the top of Brienne’s armored right shoulder as she instinctively bowed her head. “Brienne of Tarth,” she heard Jaime say, “do you swear before the eyes of gods and men to defend those who cannot help themselves, to protect all women and children, to obey your captains, your liege lord, and your king, to fight bravely when needed and to do such tasks as are laid upon you, however hard or humble or dangerous they may be?”

For a long moment, her voice would not work, and then, the words fought their way out of her throat. “I do.”

Jaime set the sword on her left shoulder, then withdrew and sheathed it. “Arise, Ser Brienne of Tarth.”

She arose to her feet as the room erupted in applause from all who had been observing. The men clapped respectfully, although Varys appeared distracted by his own thoughts, and the rest of them had smiles of approval. Her squire Podrick and the three ladies in the circle were quite boisterous with their applause, and Podrick, Sansa, Missandei, and Serenei came to her to give their own hugs of congratulations, and she thanked all of them.

Her sapphire eyes were glued to Jaime, who was silent, hand on his sword, as she accepted the plaudits from everyone else. But he was gazing at her as well, a relieved smile on his face, his eyes filled with pride and happiness for her.

_The man once gave me a Valyrian steel sword and a full suit of armor, _she thought as she stared at him, _but this was the greatest gift I ever received. Gods help me, but I might love the man and I’ve got no idea how to cope with it._

#

**Bran**

_They’ll be here soon. I know it._

He sat next to the heart tree, staring at its grief-stricken eyes and mouth that seemed to be moaning or reciting some ancient prayers. He remembered that in his youth, especially before he’d lost the use of his legs, he always feared the appearance of the heart trees, thinking such things should not have faces. Now, he greeted it as almost an old friend, or at least the familiar. It was home to him, it was the heritage of his people. And as much as his brother and sisters were about to make their stands, so would he in his own way.

Melisandre and Kinvara spoke invocations of the Lord of Light over the men of the Fiery Hand. The slave warriors from Volantis had formed into four phalanxes of spearmen, in two long lines facing both west and north in an inverted L-shape, while about sixty archers from the Hand surrounded Bran’s immediate position, near a group of blazing braziers to set their dragonglass arrows alight. There was enough space that the soldiers could easily flow behind to cover their unguarded southeast rear if needed.

Ser Beric came to him, looking as much at ease if they were about to go camping in the woods in the summer. He laid his hand on the back of Bran’s neck in a gesture of reassurance. “Are you well, my Lord? Need anything to eat, are you warm enough?”

“Quite warm, thank you,” Bran said, gesturing to the furs covering the lower half of his torso and legs. “I will have to be… away soon, but do not concern yourself. I’m ready for this.”

“As am I, young Lord,” Beric said, tapping the hilt of his sword. “If death comes tonight… well, at least I’m familiar enough with him that it won’t be a shock.”

“Ser Beric,” he said. “I do not have the ability to see ahead, in the future. So, in case either you or I or the both of us do not survive… I want to thank you for being here. My family thanks you for helping protect our home and our people.”

“The honor is mine,” Beric said. “I serve the Lord of Light’s will here.”

“Best of luck,” Bran said. With that, he leaned back into his chair, his eyes turning white.

#

_…his mind was with the ravens and birds, flittering from one form to another to see the whole of what surrounded him. Through the ravens’ eyes, he saw men and women slowly start making their way to their positions, readying their weapons and hearts for the fight ahead._

_He wondered where his brother was, and decided to stretch his mind further, reaching for the dragons. His mind… grasped, there was not another word for it, in all four directions, seeking their minds, their presences. Then, he felt them off somewhere in the west…_

_He pictured in his mind Rhaegal, the emerald dragon that had bonded with his brother, allowed him to become his dragonrider. If there was an animal that would know where Jon was, it would be him._

_Bran finally found Rhaegal, and slid into him and behind his eyes, trying to communicate that he was a friend rather than foe. A purring rumble emanated from him as he sensed the Three-Eyed-Raven’s presence, but calmed down when he realized he was a visitor, and a familiar one at that… even over the distance Rhaegal could sense that Bran was in some way family._

_Through his eyes, he saw Jon and Daenerys together in a cave by the hot springs, the area now familiar to him. To his shock, they were naked and making love – not slowly or deliberately, but in a panicking frenzy – Jon looming above her, grabbing her ankles and spreading them wide in the air as he rapidly thrust into her, his chest heaving. Bran was more than a little embarrassed by seeing Daenerys’ well-rounded breasts swaying up and down as she lay underneath Jon, her hands clamped around the back of his neck, bringing his head down to hers, as she fixed him with her violet stare._

_He heard a rapid, repeated chorus of “oh” coming from them until there was a loud, shared “OH!” as they climaxed together in a near fury, Jon dropping her legs to hug her tightly to him, and Daenerys doing the same with her arms around his neck and her legs locked around his waist. They were crying and laughing at the same time. _They think this is their last time together,_ Bran realized._

_For a long time, they laid like that, voiceless except for their panting breaths, their embrace saying all that needed said. Out of the corner of Rhaegal’s eye, he saw the black dreaded brother Drogon looking toward the north. Finally, he sensed Drogon’s thoughts. They come, _ Muna_._

_Despite all his abilities, everything he has seen at just six and ten, he was still amazed that Daenerys senses Drogon’s thoughts. With tears in her eyes, she turned to Jon. “The Others are here,” she said._

_Wordlessly, Jon nodded to her, and they exchanged one more kiss. From there, it was a rush to put on their clothes and armor for the fight ahead…_

_Bran flew away from that scene, into the form of a hawk flying just north of the cave. He saw a swirling long wall of slashing snow and powerful wind creeping through the Wolfswood in an arc stretching to directly north of Winterfell. He realized the nonchalance of the dragons – the line was easily going to pass by the cave – but the Army of the Dead was on the way._

_He could not sense the Night King or Viserion – was it because he was focused on the entirety of the field than just them? He wasn’t sure, but he couldn’t focus on them just yet. He was pretty sure they did not know his exact location, but that he was near and in the castle. He had to see what else was going on, flying from one creature to another to see the whole picture…_

_…outside the smithy, he saw a door fly open and his sister and the smith Gendry start to exit through the door. Arya was encased in her typical black leather armor, with the double-bladed spear strapped to her back and the Catspaw dagger in her belt – _Needle not much use against the dead tonight_, he realized. Gendry was wrapped up in his own black leather coat and leather gambeson, and metal gauntlets guarding the hands that grasped a massive two-handed warhammer topped with a dragonglass head._

_They said no words to each other, but to Bran’s mild surprise, she yanked Gendry down by the front of his collar and crushed her lips against his. As they finally pulled apart, it appeared she wanted to say something to him, her grey eyes swimming, but turned away and hurried to the wall before he could say anything. A worried Gendry jogged behind her to their destination…_

_…from a raven over the Great Keep, he saw Tyrion amongst a group of Northern archers and lookouts with spyglasses in all directions. “Keep an eye open for the signals from Their Graces and the lookouts to the west and north,” he called out. “The minute we see those, we need to make our signals seen.” He saw four men behind Tyrion start wrestling with twenty-foot long poles which had torches at the end of them. “Get them lit, get them ready,” Tyrion exhorted…_

_…the rolling stormwall continued toward Winterfell, panicking both living earthbound and flying creatures alike. He could make out vague, monstrous shapes lumbering on the edges of the cloud, suggestions of beings but not true views. A rumbling moan came from the cloud, the sound of thousands and thousands of throats dusty from disuse rattling to life in a chorus of the dead. The cloud kept moving forward…_

_…Jon and Daenerys faced each other, now fully dressed, armed, and armored, in a clearing before the hot springs. Drogon was waiting yards behind the queen, and Rhaegal about the same distance behind Jon. As they embraced, she said, “What is the saying in Westeros… ‘I wish you good fortune in the wars to come?’”_

_“It is,” he nodded._

_“You remember the signal, then?”_

_“Aye,” Jon chuckled, “although I have a feeling Rhaegal will be the one handling things in the end.”_

_“I love you,” Daenerys said. “Stay safe.”_

_“I love you too, and you do the same,” Jon said._

_After a final, lingering kiss, they jogged to their respective dragons and climbed on. Both Jon and Daenerys called out _“Soves,” _and the dragons beat the air with their wings, rising in an almost vertical climb. Their upward paths brought them closer and closer together, making an inverted V-shape. Just as they crossed paths, they each called out “Dracerys!”_

_Both dragons spewed fire in twin long streams, making a massive crude V-shape in the sky. It could be seen for miles… and on top of the Great Keep where Tyrion was watching along with the signalers._

_“There’s the signal from Their Graces,” Tyrion called out in an excited and frantic voice. “Sound the horn! All to their posts.”_

_One of the men at the top of the keep put his lips to a massive curved horn and blew three long _AWOOGA-_sounding blasts. It rang out over the castle, causing an extra rush to positions…_

_…and inside the Great Keep, as Bran saw through Ghost’s eyes the consternation among the group in the hall, which included Sansa. He saw Jaime and Brienne take a final drink from their goblets and setting them down on a table before they, Podrick Payne, and Bronn of the Blackwater exited the room to get to their posts, and Serenei to the infirmary. Wordlessly, Sansa went over to the table to grab some bottles of wine and bring it back to where Ghost sat with Missandei and Lord Varys…_

_…the Riverlanders and fighters of House Karstark lined the southern walls, jittery as they both gazed out in front of them and stole glances from behind them, where they expected the attack to come from. His uncle Edmure was in full armor, a dragonglass arahk unfamiliar in his hands and a dagger in his belt, appearing troubled but resolute. Lady Alys Karstark wielded a dragonglass spear and a dagger in her belt. The terror was obvious in her eyes, but she stood steady next to the head of House Tully…_

_…on the northern walls, Tormund Giantsbane was giving one last message to the Freefolk. “Those undead cunts out there killed our friends, killed our kin at Hardhome and plenty of other places!” he bellowed, axes in each hand raised high. “Our king Mance sacrificed himself so we can live. Many others did so we could get here. Fuck, King Crow _died_ for us, and he’s still ready to fight for us! So, it’s _TIME!_ It’s time to pay those men and women back for what they gave us.” He then pointed north with one of his axes. “And it’s time to pay _those_ fuckers back for what they did to us. Now’s our chance, lads. WE DO NOT KNEEL!”_

_“WE DO NOT KNEEL!” was the thunderous reply from the Freefolk, who continued to hoot wildly, raising their weapons in the air in tribute to their leader. Although most of the Northerners near that section of the castle, like House Glover, kept silent, a few others joined in on the chants, including young Ned Umber, a dragonglass axe grasped tightly in both hands. Ser Jorah was also there, in full armor and ready for action, alongside his younger cousin Lady Mormont, in a full cuirass and dragonglass battleaxe in hand...  
_

_…at the northeastern edge of the wall, Ser Bronn, Ser Jaime, Ser Brienne, and Podrick Payne were lined up, all of them wary but resolute, weapons in hand, as they scanned the open fields around them for a sign of the Others…_

_…Lord Commander Tollett, The Hound, Arya, and Gendry were lined up on the western section of the wall, facing the Wolfswood.  
_

_Arya and the Hound were steel-eyed as she noticed the wall of snow creeping closer to the castle, their home, through the woods._ _Trying not to keep glancing over at Gendry, she twirled her double-ended spear for a second, trying to prepare to face Death like she’d done before. The others were jittery, shifting their feet in preparation for what was to come…_

_…”Look!” called out Edd, pointing to a spot just above the woods. Three flaming arrows shot into the night sky, making a crude W-shape as they streaked upward. Gendry looked over his right shoulder and saw a similar but fainter shape, drawn by flaming arrows, from farther north._

_“It’s started,” Arya pronounced grimly, setting her feet and getting into a fighting stance with her spear. As she looked on, she saw small fires igniting in different parts of the Wolfswood, in advance of the snow wall… the fires were spreading along the edge of the wood…_

_  
_#

Bran’s eyes flashed back to their normal blue as he returned to his body. Looking over his left shoulder, he could see the 20-foot long flaming torches waving back and forth together on top of the Great Keep, the signal for the cavalry to the north and west to begin their advance.

Turning back to face forward, he saw Ser Beric at his side, bowing down as were the other devotees of the Red God. Melisandre and Kinvare were chanting in a language unknown to him, a call and response between the two of them and the Fiery Hand.

He saw the rubies on the necklaces of Melisandre and Kinvara glow bright as their prayers grew in volume and intensity. There was much mention of the name Azor Ahai – _Is my brother truly that?_ he thought. _A strange turn of events for someone people thought as a simple bastard._

Despite the night’s grip on Winterfell with the sun nowhere in sight, a warm glow grew in the godswood. The spear tips of the Fiery Hand’s hoplites suddenly burst into flames, now all of them lethal against the wights. A ring of torches placed around the walls surrounding the godswood came alight in a single _whoosh_ of flame.

With a simple sweep of his hand along his blade, Ser Beric set his sword on fire and stood on Bran’s right side. “The Others have arrived, My Lord.”

_Now it begins, _Bran thought, _The Song of Ice and Fire._

His eyes once again turned to white as his part of the fight began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we're here at the battle.
> 
> I'm expecting the battle to be a three-chapter event, so how long it will eventually turn into I'm not sure. I'll probably have the first installment ready for you... end of next week, maybe?
> 
> As always, enjoy and please feel free to leave comments - I tend to respond back to them for sure.


	26. The Long Night Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dead and the Living clash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be Part I of V dealing with the battle between the Living and the Dead. Hope you enjoy it.

26.

**Arya**

She saw the fire spread just behind the treeline, maybe 50 yards from the clearing, stretching like a serpent along a north-south axis. She shared Jon’s worry about the Wolfswood and hoped that the knight from the Northern mountains had been right when he said the entire forest wouldn’t burn. It did appear that the fire was traveling more laterally, and the winds coming in fierce from the northwest would direct the fire more east and away from the rest of the wood.

For a moment, there was nothing but the crackle of the fires and the blowing winds, with what appeared to be a massive stormcloud creeping toward the castle. Then, there was a rush of horses as more than a dozen riders hurdled in a ragged v-formation from the woods, just out of reach of the flames. They slowly came together in a line as they reached the first of the openings in the wooden palisades.

Right after that, Arya saw behind her that the signalers on top of the Great Keep were waving a different signal, the two large torches moving back and forth north and south. She turned front to see the Unsullied moving the first of the blockades into position and slowly retreating, first making sure each of the gates was secure while in a U-shaped formation in front of the next open gate.

Arya heard the unholy howls before she saw the shapes of the once-human wights emerge from both the storm and the fires. Maybe half of them were already on fire and started to collapse after a few steps, but others who had run behind those in flames had been protected from the fire. However, it appeared that some of those on fire would set the first, outermost palisades on fire. Regardless of that, she saw the first of the archers loosing burning arrows over the walls to set it on fire.

Both Gendry and the Hound had told her a few stories about the Others. She was now believing all of them.

#

**Khal Doro**

Doro was confident in his position. The rolling snowcloud had moved south, fully passing the positions of the elite Dothraki bloodrider cavalry huddled in the forest without fires to keep warm. Despite the size of some of the shapes inside the cloud – he could have sworn he’d seen something that looked like a giant and something that appeared to be a hairy elephant – he was feeling good about his chances. The Dothraki were about to charge on an open field into the unprotected rear of an enemy. With the element of surprise, and the dragonglass arakhs and arrows for their compound bows, he was in the best position to make use of his forces.

Khal Doro had a slight resemblance to the Khaleesi’s late husband, but he was leaner than he had been, and his braid shorter – not due to losing any battles, but because he was seven years the junior of Drogo. Now thirty, he was the top commander among the Dothraki in Westeros.

There had been jokes at his expense about not being the true husband of the Khaleesi, but Doro shrugged them off easily. They were very rare, especially when others countered with the tales of how she burned all the Khals at Vaes Dothrak. Doro had no desire to go against her and her dragons. Besides, that left him free to take three other wives at last count who minded him well.

He unsheathed his arakh as he saw the signal to charge come from the castle. He had no fear of what was to await him. Many Dothraki claimed to face death, but here was the physical manifestation of it in these walking forms and creatures. Live or dead after the fight, he felt confident that the exploits of he and his men would be told until time immorial.

Raising his arakh high, Doro called out a command, and the mass of Dothraki cavalry streamed from the treeline and formed up to make the charge. He wanted to make sure that the Others were well engaged with the missiles of the castle and getting past the battlements to not notice them. Only when the cloud got within arrow-shot of the outside palisades did he drop his arakh, and 35,000 Dothraki began the ride ready to make a name for themselves.

**Tormund**

He could see it all from the northern wall of the castle.

The swirling wall of snowclouds broke up just a bit to show the looming undead giants and mammoths that peaked out of the white haze, with the teeming mass of wights writhing at their feet and scrambling toward their defenses. Also becoming clearer to the observers on the wall was a group of riders clattering their mounts as fast as they could toward the still open entry point in the far northern palisades. From the water vapor expended from the horses’ mouths, Tormund could tell they were among the living. _The…_ _crannogmen, Jon called them,_ he thought. He’d not had much of a chance to meet them, though Jon had spoken highly of their scouting and fighting skills, and their leader had been a friend of his father’s. They were weaving through the giant stakes in the ground awaiting the larger representatives of the Others, and it appeared as if they would beat them to the palisades with plenty of time to spare.

The crannogmen got to the opening as the catapults inside Winterfell began to hurl fire missiles over their heads and into the teeming mass to the north. The low moans emanating from the clouds started to morph into shrieks as the missiles started to roll through some wights or hit one of the shambling giants or mammoths that were large targets, moving at a crawling pace.

Tormund observed how the Unsullied eased the barricade closed within a minute, securing it to the remainder of the barricade with chains and wooden stakes. When he had first heard of the enuch army of the Dragon Queen, he wondered how cockless men could even be considered fighters, much less good fighters. However, even he had to admire the choreography between the Unsullied sealing the barriers and those making up the phalanxes guarding them from any possible speedy wights.

“Fuck’s sake, these dead fuckers are taking forever to get out here,” Toregg called out, twirling his two-handed ax in his hand. Tormund thought to warn him about how dangerous they could be, but he remembered that Toregg had told them of his own run-in with them on his own adventures far north of the Wall.

“They’ll get here soon enough, lad. Plenty for you to deal with,” he chuckled.

**Yohn Royce**

He saw the flames leap up from the Wolfswood and the first few wights tumble out of the woods burning. “No sympathy for the dead,” the old soldier cackled as he saw everything through his spyglass.

He was waiting in their wooded hideout to the south of the Others’ position. With him was Khal Marg, commander of the Dothraki contingent of the wing; Ser Harrold Hardyng, great nephew of the late Lord Jon Arryn and the current heir to his son Lord Robyn; and Larence Snow, who was surprised to find himself in charge of the Northern cavalry even though he was not yet twenty.

“How the hell are we going to attack them through that firestorm in the trees?” Ser Harrold said. He was the same age as the King of the North, sandy haired and blue eyed, straight, muscled and every inch a young lord and/or knight. Robyn was wary of Ser Harrold’s ambition, but Yohn had to admit that the six and ten Lord of the Vale had no one to blame for that but himself. Robyn always seemed ready to succumb to the variety of illnesses he found himself afflicted with, but the presence of at least two bastards proved Ser Harrold’s vigor, if not in the way normally approved of in Westeros.

“Not going to bother with that shit,” Lord Royce barked in an uncharacteristic obscenity. “We’ll go through the clearing and hit them right as they’re sticking themselves on those wooden stakes.”

“In column, though?” Ser Harrold countered. “That might keep us out of the fire, but we won’t be able to use our maximum numbers that way.”

“We’ll attack in line, surely,” Lord Royce said, “but not in a _direct_ line.”

“Wait, an oblique line,” Larence Snow said. He held his right hand in front of his face at a slanting angle. “We’ll move the right of the line out further east and that way we can still hit them all together.”

“You have the picture,” Royce told Larence. “You move the right flank out, quick as you can. We’ll be advancing shortly.” With a nod, the Northern cavalryman went to carry out his orders. “We’ll hit them right at their most vulnerable,” Lord Royce concluded.

**Grey Worm**

It was not something that his men were practiced at, retreating at the start of a fight. However, the tactics of the Khaleesi’s new king seemed sound, especially since there were far more wights outside the castle that men and women defending it, even counting the cavalry waiting to ambush the dead from the rear.

For Grey Worm, following orders was the highest importance, both for him and his men. They were following those orders to the letter, and he had no doubt that his subcommanders on the other sides were doing the same.

As the Unsullied hoplites backed up through the most inner of entryways, their brother soldiers were already closing it off with a spiked wooden barricade, kept in place by chains and the iron stakes being pounded into the ground by selected Unsullied with sledgehammers.

What few wights, flaming or otherwise, had managed to scramble over the barricades or through the openings before they were closed off had been easily dispatched by the Unsullied’s spears. Grey Worm could see that the flaming wights from the Wolfswood had set the outer palisades on fire on their own, and flaming arrows from archers on the castle walls and towers had been busy making sure that fire and other fires spread. As the Unsullied backed through the Hunter’s Gate and took up positions immediately behind it, he felt an unfamiliar relief at the closing of the doors.

_It would be good if our services were not needed tonight,_ he thought, and it surprised him greatly. He’d never run away from a battle or fight in his life. Then Missandei’s face flashed before his eyes, and he understood totally.

He looked behind him and saw that the other Unsullied attachments to the south and east had made it back to the castle relatively unscathed, and the calls of others to the north made it clear they had done the same.

“SHIELD WALL,” he called out, and he heard the other Unsullied soldiers come to attention with a sharp rattle of spears and shields. They waited in case the gates failed the Northerners.

**Sansa**

Despite a slowly growing tremor in her hands and shoulders that she only barely was able to comprehend, Sansa decided she had to see the besiegement of her childhood home in person.

She saw the catapults at work, throwing fire toward the north, toward whatever was teeming outside Winterfell. There was a faint glow from the west and she guessed that Ser Joren’s plan to set the edge of the Wolfswood on fire had worked. She saw the Unsullied dashing through the Hunter’s Gate, their general… _Grey Worm, how did he get that sort of name? _she wondered – having them brace themselves in preparation for… whatever could come…

…as a group of riders dashed through the gate and around the Unsullied on either side. After dropping off their horses at the stables, they made a beeline toward the Great Keep, making the minimum turns possible through the teeming soldiers and the rattling catapults. The men were led by a familiar face…

“Lady Sansa, good to see you again,” Ser Joren Snow huffed, taking her by the arm. “Now get your ass in the Great Keep with the rest of us.”

She was barely able to keep her feet beneath her as Joren hauled her through the open doors into the keep. As the doors shut with a _clang, _she asked, “Are you all right?”

“I guess that depends,” Joren said, shaking his head. She could smell the smoke of the burning trees rising from him, and his woolen cloak was still smouldering. “One of the boys is still out there… I guess he’s dead now, he stayed behind to light up one of the firepots… I don’t even remember his name…”

“S… Joren, it’s fine…”

“I tell a man to die for me, I should know the man’s name, right?” he shouted, eyes wild. “He should have that, at least.”

“Joren, it’s all right,” she said, grabbing him by the shoulders. “It’s all right. We’ll find out later.”

He locked eyes with her for a moment. “Your brother’s fought those things more than once and he’s not flying off to Essos or some island instead of staying? He’s more of a hero than anyone around here.”

“You’re staying too, and I’m staying. Plenty of brave people around here,” Sansa said.

Joren looked past her, over to Missandei, Varys, and a handful of others, either some household staff like Maester Wolkan and some of the other northern maesters who had come with their houses, or some too infirm or sick to be of help. “Well, you might want to settle down in the hall. We should keep the door barred in case of attack.”

Sansa nodded. “Very well." She turned and walked back to the open hall. “We’ve still got some wine if you need some,” she laughed.

“None now, thank you, but under the circumstances I’d understand if you had some more,” Joren replied.

“Indeed.” She looked on sadly as Joren arranged his men around the door in preparation for if the door was breached. _Hopefully it won’t come down to you, Ser, but I’m not sure how realistic that is._ Sansa decided that she’d need at least another drink.

**Tyrion**

He was beginning to feel good about the battle plan.

As Tyrion took in the scene through his spyglass while standing on top of the Great Keep, it now appeared that the entire Army of the Dead were either entangled on the palisades or waiting their turn to get entangled, and starting to encircle their defenses. What appeared to be thousands of the wights were already impaled on the wooden stakes, and those not set alight by the Wolfswood fire were now being burned by the palisades, which had been set on fire by both the wights and the flaming arrows from the castle. Although enough of them had managed to climb over each other’s backs to get over the outermost ring of palisades to the west and north, they and the other obstacles were keeping the giant and mammoth wights out.

Looking to the northeast, he saw the great Dothraki horde commanded by Khal Doro starting to make their charge into the unsuspecting rear of the Others. They and the combined Vale/Northmen/Dothraki wing of cavalry from the southwest would soon hit both their targets and start destroying more of the dead.

High above the Wolfswood, the flames illuminated enough of the skies to show Daenerys riding Drogon in a wide, swinging arc toward the northwest, preparing to sweep over the northern front of the Army of the Dead and start eliminating them with dragonfire. He saw Jon immediately above her, riding Rhaegal, and keeping his eyes open for the Night King and undead Viserion. Tyrion was impressed with how natural he seemed on dragonback, although the queen had told him Jon had been practicing regularly with Rhaegal ever since his first flight. _Everything seems to be going according to plan…_

There was a massive _CRACK_ to the north, and he saw a mammoth wight slowly showing aside the outer entry barricade to the palisades while being pushed by a trio of undead giants. A mass of human wights teemed behind them and started to swarm into the space between the outer and middle palisades. Even though no other gate or palisades had been breached, the wights were piling themselves over different sections in such numbers that they were either snuffing out the fires entirely or protecting the wights long enough that they could climb over.

Then, Tyrion saw something else. There were six White Walkers, three to the west and three to the north. All six of them were armed with the same type of ice spears that had slain Viserion and were riding giant spiders considerably larger than horses. The spiders were white furred, with a texture that almost appeared as newly fallen snow, except for their multiple red eyes and black hooked jaws. He saw them climbing over the palisades, over the wights, with unnatural ease. The spiders and their White Walker riders disappeared underneath the tops of the walls. _Being spiders, they should be able to scale the walls, dragonglass bits stuck to them or not…_

A furred spider leg punched a hole through the Hunter’s Gate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone,
> 
> Please feel free to drop a hello or critique in the comments - 99 percent of the time I'll say hello to you. I wasn't entirely happy with how this first part of the Battle of the Long Night went down, but I'm hoping it's just ramping up to the heavier action in the later parts.
> 
> Due to work obligations and an impending move for me, it might be 2-3 weeks between updates for me. I do plan to continue on this project and finish it, although it may take me longer than I expected. I might be able to pick up the pace during this summer, although whether I'll finish it by the end of the summer is an open question.
> 
> Again, thanks to everyone who has left kudos and comments, especially fellow authors. I've discovered a lot of good writing out here on this site, and it's stuff that I'll continue to read for a long time to come. Happy reading and writing, everyone.


	27. The Long Night Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The living are pressed by the dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is the second part of The Battle of the Long Knight. I've been reading a lot of GOT/ASOIAF combat sequences, and I'm hoping my description and the way I organized the fight stand up to those accounts. Let me know how that works out - if you've noticed, I'm always open to revisions here if I need it.

27.

**Arya**

It would have been an understatement to say that things were beginning to get desperate.

As Arya stood on the western battlements, her eyes were fixed on the scene below her just outside the walls of her childhood home. The eastern edge of the Wolfswood still blazed, but the intensity of the sound of crackling wood was starting to die down, a sign that the eastern edge of the woods was running out of fuel for the flames. The palisades were still standing and still on fire, but waves of wights were laying on top of them, allowing themselves to burn while others lay on top of them, trying to temporarily smother the flames. Hundreds and thousands that had managed not to catch fire in the forrest thus sacrificed themselves on the palisades, laying down an undead fire break for those who followed them. Three such writhing wight “bridges” now extended across the western palisades, despite the steady shower of flaming arrows that tried to cut down their numbers. Arya idly wondered how many arrows most of the archers had left. _Not nearly enough for all the dead,_ she thought.

Peering over the edge of the battlements, she saw that more wights were gathering at the foot of the western granite walls of the castle. Lacking any siege engines of their own, and trying to avoid the sections of the wall that were dropping flaming pitch onto anyone below, the wights had adopted a brutally simple but effective strategy for climbing the walls. The first of the unfortunate undead slaves simply piled themselves up against the wall near sections where there was no pitch falling down. They either destroyed themselves against the dragonglass outcroppings stuck to the walls or simply laid there as their fellow wights piled on top of them, the pile growing higher and larger and the wights getting closer and closer to the top of the walls.

Then there were the White Walkers riding the spiders and the wight giants to worry about.

She saw one of the spider-riding White Walkers using his mount to punch holes in the Hunter’s Gate with its legs, although its long, black mandibles looked like they could do their own amount of damage. There were only two wight giants in the group attacking the west wall, but they were now at the gate and rattling it with their fists. She expected the gate to fly open at any moment, and then it would get nasty…

Looking out in front of her, she estimated that half of the dead that had charged from the west were burned up in the Wolfswood or on and around the palisades. Of the half that were still… viable, if not alive, half of those were still on the outside of the palisades trying to make their way in, and the other half were at the foot of the walls looking to get over them. _Still too many of them,_ she thought.

Then with a CRASH, she heard the horsemen from the southwest slam into the unprotected rear of the Army of the Dead. While the lances of the Vale Knights and Northern mounted soldiers skewered one group of wights further to the south, the Dothraki chose to slash along the rear of the wights and move further north, keeping on the move and slinging their obsidian-studded arakhs like reapers mowing down wheat. In both instances, while the attack from the rear did not panic the dead as it would the living, they were packed in so tightly against the palisades, even against the causeways of bodies leading them toward the walls, that they could barely move, much less turn around and counterattack effectively against the armored Westerosi and the ferocious, whirling Dothraki warriors.

Then, from the corner of her eye, she saw a large orange cone of flame _whoosh _out over a large swath of the undead host from the skies. It was Daenerys on Drogon, looking to even the odds with her people. With the bulk of her Dothraki now apparently engaged against the far rear of the Army of the Dead, the queen concentrated her dragon’s attentions against the hordes still between them and the palisades. All the giants and mammoths to the north except for one giant battering the gates were soon screaming and on fire, blazing sentinels in the middle of the undead army.

**Daenerys**

Looking up, Daenerys saw Jon well above her, not yet engaging the enemy but keeping an eye out for the Night King. She believed the Night King might remember her from the raid, and perhaps Jon as well from the battle at Hardhome.

She circled around with Drogon above the northern section of the field and saw the holes in the palisades there. The dead poured through them and into the pocket between the innermost group of spiked posts and the northern granite walls of Winterfell. Swooping down for another pass, she enveloped the mammoth and trio of giants that had broken through the barriers in dragonfire, as well as a good number of the wights gathered directly at their feet.

“We would have taken them, Dragon Queen,” she somehow heard Tormund Giantsbane bellow from the top of the northern battlements, and despite the death and horror, she found herself having to suppress a chuckle… which died out immediately when she saw one of the three White Walkers along the northern front, astride a giant ice spider, suddenly toss a very familiar-looking ice spear at Drogon.

She immediately urged Drogon skyward as vertically as she could climb on such short notice, then dove straight down again to avoid ice spears from the other two White Walkers. Despite the maneuvers, one of them was close enough to brush against the ends of her silver hair as it whisked past and over Drogon.

Once she got out of the reach of the White Walkers, Daenerys whirled around to her right and left to try and find where Jon was, as she had lost sight of him during her last run against the Others. He was nowhere to be seen at first… but then she looked directly above her.

A straight line of bright blue flame jetted across the sky and illuminated Jon and Rhaegal from above them. They had barely managed to duck under the… fire? _It looks like fire, at least, _she thought. She traced the line of flames back from Jon to…

What she saw froze her blood. Viserion streaked through the air with a piercing cry as he sped toward Rhaegal. She could see the ice-blue eyes of the Night King reflected in those of her now-dead child. Time slowed as she noticed the gaping wound in Viserion’s side that had ended his life, as well as smaller injuries that would never heal, nicks along his side and small holes peppering both his wings. It was no longer her child, but a dark pantomime of him now being used as an undead weapon.

And on top of her former child, she saw the Night King, astride Viserion’s back as if he had once been of old Valyria, an ice spear raised above his head as he urged his new dragon minion forward. From what she could see from the distance she was from them and the snow that was blowing in ever thickening sheets through the air, his expression was blank but his ice-blue eyes were focused on her husband and his dragon.

She glanced for a fraction of a second at her people on the ground, but she urged Drogon skyward on an intercept course for the Night King. Her army needed her help, but her king was in a greater need, and she would not abandon him.

**Jon**

By this point in his life, he’d seriously trained in the combat arts for more than five and ten years. Among the young men he’d lived with as a youth, he was the best with a sword, Robb had been the best with a spear, and Theon the expert when it came to the bow. In addition, Arya had shown her talents at almost all the combat arts. The main thing all those forms of combat had in common was the idea of using an inanimate object, a deadly tool to overcome or even kill your enemies. Even when the fighting was on horseback, the animal was used as transportation more than anything else. Some knights even refused to name their horses as if acknowledging how easily they might meet their end.

Too late, Jon realized that fighting on dragonback, especially against another dragon, was a far different experience than any combat he’d ever had before.

With the speeds that the dragons flew through the air and the extended distances between dragons and dragonriders, the idea of using a sword in combat was a ridiculous idea, even setting aside the difficulties of staying on a flying dragon while wielding a sword. No arrows would have much effect on even an undead dragon’s hide. No, a dragonrider’s mount and his weapon were one and the same.

_Rhaegal is almost like my child, but here I am wielding him like an unnamed ax against a foe. But he is not a _tool,_ he is my child. It’s like ordering Arya to go fight the undead in a way…_

The last brooding instinct in Jon that had frozen him for a few seconds was banished from his mind as soon as another jet of bright blue flame sizzled over his head. With each of his hands on one of Rhaegal’s spines and his calves and heels dug into his emerald-scaled sides, he urged his dragon child into a short, dipping dive before climbing again to gain more altitude.

Remembering the lessons of his father, Ser Rodrik and all the others who’d trained him in the arts of war, he began analyzing the matchup between him and Rhaegal and the Night King and Viserion as he put more distance between the combatants. Jon had to assume that the Night King could control Viserion far easier than he commanded Rhaegal, simply due to his ability to directly control his minions. The blue-eyed dragon was beyond pain and fear, and he doubted he would tire. However, Rhaegal had slightly more size, and both that strength and his intact wings meant he would have the advantage of speed and maneuverability in the fight. _Make space between us, avoid any ice spears thrown by the Night King, outmaneuver him and end the fight quickly,_ he realized.

Now that he’d gotten some more altitude, Jon took Rhaegal into a tight banking turn, attempting to get behind the climbing Viserion and ram him from behind. However, Jon and Rhaegal had just started the turn to the right when first another ice spear and then another jet of blue fire sped directly at them. Jon first made a sharp turn down to squeeze around the fire and then back up to let the spear fly past their right side and off into the darkness. He prepared to get back into the turn…

…only to have Viserion slam into Rhaegal’s side from below. The fire and spear had succeeded in slowing Rhaegal down enough to let the undead dragon catch up from below.

Rhaegal twisted to the left, its side sporting a shallow talon scratch from Viserion, and then faced off against his former brother. As both their wings kept beating to maintain an altitude while hovering, they wrestled, talons locked together in a test of strength. Both Jon and the Night King were hanging on at the base of their mounts’ necks, too busy remaining mounted and not falling into the frozen swirling sky to strike out at each other.

Rearing his head back, Viserion swung its jaws open wide and lunged at Jon over Rhaegal’s back, only to stop at least a yard short of the mark. Rhaegal had butted his head into the bottom of Viserion’s neck, stopping the motion and keeping his head away from the rider on the back of his own neck.

As the two dragons grappled and whipped their wings through the air to stay steady, they both swayed together in three dimensions, forcing Jon to grab onto Rhaegal’s spines just to keep himself somewhat steady. _This is like trying to swordfight while swimming in the ocean,_ Jon concluded.

A massive, rumbling roar came from behind Viserion, and Jon realized who it was. With a _whump_, Drogon rammed himself talons-first into the side of Viserion, shoving the undead dragon away from his brother. Viserion lost perhaps a few dozen feet of altitude before coming to a hovering stop below the royal couple of Westeros and their dragons.

The minute Viserion halted his descent, Jon and Dany locked eyes through the swirling snowy winds and made their move. _“Dracarys!” _they yelled simultaneously.

Drogon and Rhaegal doused Viserion and the Night King in a roiling, massive fireball that Jon guessed could have been seen in White Harbor. The flames swirled around dragon and rider, hiding both from view. As Drogon and Rhaegal paused to recharge their flame glands, they waited to see what effect the dragonfire had…

…which was none.

Only a few strands of smoke rising and then billowing away from Viserion and the Night King hinted at the firestorm they had endured. The Night King’s expression, the same blank ice-blue stare that it had since Jon had first encountered him at Hardhome, had not changed at all. It almost would have been more reassuring to Jon if he had been triumphant, or showed any emotions whatsoever.

_Dragonfire’s useless against them,_ Jon thought. _Fuck._

Viserion reared back and both Drogon and Rhaegal dove down, crossing each other’s paths and already putting distance between them and the undead dragon before a blue cone of flame enveloped him. _Have to try something else,_ Jon thought.

**Brienne**

The fight was starting to come to them.

From her vantage point near the northeast corner of Winterfell, she had a clear vantage point of most of the battle occurring around the castle. The dead had managed to wrap around the castle’s defenses from the north to the east and were starting to get near the southern defenses. There was a glow from beyond the southern wall that either hinted that the fire on the palisades had reached there, the winter town might be on fire, or both. _Gods help the men manning the catapults out there,_ she thought, hoping they had been allowed to escape through the southern gate before it was too late.

To the west, it appeared that the wights had managed to get to the tops of the walls in about two different locations and were starting to engage with the fighters there, the archers having retreated to the tops of the nearby towers. She saw a spider’s leg and what appeared to be a dead giant’s fist punching through the Hunter’s Gate, and the Unsullied were bracing themselves in front of it, Grey Worm by their side, in preparation for the onslaught.

To the north, the gate seemed secure, but there were wights making their way over the walls, on top of the massive piles of the undead acting as crude ramps. There seemed to be at least three of those piles, and the Freefolk and their former Northmen enemies now tore into the undead together.

To the east, the fewer wights there and the attack of the main Dothraki forces had winnowed out most of those forces. However, a smaller stream of wights was now making an undead bridge over one part of the eastern palisades, sacrificing themselves to the burning barriers so that their undead bretheren could continue their attack on the castle.

It was then that she saw two ice spiders simultaneously creeping up the wight “ramps” to the northern wall, each sporting an ice spear wielding White Walker on its back. As the White Walkers stabbed away at the living fighters and the spiders lashed out with black fangs and white-furred legs, Brienne decided that those on the eastern wall would have to provide help.

Brienne turned to Jaime, who was observing the scene to the north as she did. “We’ve got to help them out,” she called out to him over the increasing din around them.

“The dead are making their way to our position as we speak,” Jaime said, pointing to the dead now making an undead bridge over the three layers of burning palisades to the east. “They might need us here just as much as they do on the north wall.”

“They’re not even at the walls yet here,” Brienne pointed out. “They’re about to get overwhelmed on the north wall. That’s where they need us now.” She hoisted Oathkeeper over her head, using it to get the attention of Wyllis Manderly amid his men from White Harbor. “Lord Wyllis! We need to reinforce the northeast corner!” she shouted, pointing to the nearest ice spider and its White Walker rider.

Wyllis nodded and waved them off. “These ones here haven’t gotten to us yet,” he shouted out. “Go ahead.”

Brienne turned to the men immediately around her. “With us, men!” There were two dozen Northern fighters who followed Sers Jaime, Bronn, Brienne, and the squire Podrick down the eastern wall toward the battle on the north walls.

When they exited the passage from the northeastern tower, what they saw was pure chaos. Maybe three out of every 10 wights who had approached the castle from the north had managed to make it to the foot of the walls. Not all of them had made it up to the tops of those walls – many were laying at the foot of them stuck full of dragonglass arrows, on fire, or simply laying down on the ground to allow fellow wights to climb over them. However, there were enough coming over the walls to begin to overwhelm its living protectors.

The wights did not so much attack the living as swarm them. Some were armed with rusted iron or bronze weapons, others with crude clubs or spears. Many of them were armed with nothing but their hands and teeth, and they were making good use of them. As Brienne started to cut down wights near her position with Oathkeeper, she saw four wights jump on top of Lord Robett Glover, one burying his teeth in Robett’s neck, while the other three grabbed onto one of his limbs. Trying to slash at the attackers with his handaxe, he fell to his doom to the courtyard below.

“FATHER!” screamed a tall, dark-haired young man, perhaps as young as Brandon Stark, wearing a red gambeson with a mailed fist at its center. Brienne remembered him being Gawen Glover, Lord Glover’s son and heir. With a scream, he jumped from the battlements, long dragonglass daggers in each hand, looking to either save or avenge his father, whichever was possible. It seemed to Brienne that the teenager had survived his jump and was fighting what he found below, but she lost sight of him as she turned her attention to the fight in front of her.

She and Ser Jaime hacked at the wights as they came over the wall with their Valyrian steel as Ser Bronn and Podrick backed them up with dragonglass-tipped spears and axes. While they were able to hold their own in their corner of the battle, more trouble was coming.

Brienne saw two White Walkers on top of ice spiders leading a large group of wights against Tormund and the Freefolk on the other side of the northern wall. In addition, the last of the giants that had attacked from the north, after battering the north gate for several minutes, had managed to pry open the gates. The bearded, ragged undead giant, missing a left eye and already sporting multiple wounds to his legs from non-dragonglass weapons, ducked his head to walk through the gate. He turned his one blue eye onto the group of Unsullied directly in its path and the Freefolk and crannogmen that flanked them to see who he would strike at first.

As the giant brought himself up to his full height, however, he paid a fatal lack of attention to the battlements immediately behind him. “Wait!” Brienne shouted in shock as she saw Lady Lyanna Mormont, wielding what seemed an almost too-large for her dragonglass battle axe, jump at the giant’s head from behind. The undead giant instinctually brushed the back of his head, as if to swat away an insect. Lady Lyanna went flying forward as a rag doll thrown down by a child, and just managed to land amid some of the crannogmen. They, the Freefolk and the Unsullied then had to move out of the way of the falling giant, which had Lady Lyanna’s axe well-buried in the top of his head. Freed from fighting off the giant, the living soldiers now got closer to the gate to prepare to receive the wights coming through the gate. Both Brienne and a concerned Ser Jorah saw two crannogmen carrying the apparently still alive Lady of Bear Island to the infirmary, although they could not tell the extent of her injuries.

It was then that the defenders of Winterfell heard a cacophony of roars and shrieks from above the northern battlefield.

**Daenerys**

Even with two against one, the fight against the Night King on Viserion seemed stacked against the living dragons and riders.

The undead rider and dragon was chasing Jon and Rhaegal in a series of looping, tight turns. She guessed the Night King was intent on eliminating the smaller of the two dragons – _and perhaps the least experienced of the dragonriders? Could he tell that? How did _he_ know how to ride a dragon so well? Was he from Valyria in his living time, or did his ability to control the undead make it so easy for him?_ – allowing him to concentrate on her and Drogon. She determined that her husband and child were not going to die tonight.

John was in a tight left-hand turn with Rhaegal, trying to maneuver out of range of Viserion’s blue flames, which kept shooting out at Rhaegal’s tail. Most dragons, Drogon and Rhaegal included, could exhaust their fire glands after extended fire-breathing sessions, but this apparently did not apply to undead dragons. Of the three dragons in the air, Viserion was likely the slowest due to the existing holes and injuries to his wings, but there was no chance of him tiring, and she worried how long Rhaegal and Drogon, for that matter, could keep up with the pace… and Drogon was still slower than Viserion…

She saw her opening in another turn Jon was making directly in front of her. It would be foolish of her to try and get behind the Night King, but intercepting them from the front was another matter.

Daenerys coaxed Drogon to get just about a hundred yards more height than Rhaegal and Drogon, and drifted towards the incoming path of the two turning dragons. _Keep turning, my love, _she said, whether to Jon or Rhaegal or both she was not sure. Regardless, they did as she hoped, and as she also hoped, the Night King did not notice her approach from above and just to his left. He didn’t notice until first Jon and then he crossed her path.

Drogon slammed into the back of Viserion, tearing a great slashing wound with his talons into his once-living brother’s back. Drogon snapped at the Night King, but he held the midnight-black dragon at bay with his ice spear, keeping his jaws far away. She saw Jon trying to fly directly upward, attempting to perform a vertical roll so that he could get to their position in the air as quickly as possible…

Viserion turned his head to the rear and unleashed a blue jet of flame directly at her head. Instinctively, she ducked – she was immune to the effects of regular fire, even dragonfire, but she had no idea if she had the same immunity to the blue flames. Drogon banked away from the flames as well.

It was then that she lost her hold on Drogon.

Shrieking, she tumbled towards the ground, clawing at the air and praying that either Jon and Rhaegal or Drogon or some soft snow even might break her fall. _The dangers of a dragonrider _ran through her head, and she wondered if that would be the last thought she would ever have. _No. I love you, Jon, my children. I love you._ The ground grew closer and closer in her vision – she was falling to a location between the two outer palisades to the north. It was clear, but certainly not safe from the Army of the Dead. She was only a few feet now from the ground…

…but just then Drogon’s left talons closed around her chest as he swooped down to her. It was too steep of a dive for Drogon to climb up, so he ended up flopping onto his left side, doing his best to keep the queen from a direct hit on the ground. As he skidded to a stop in the open area between the palisades, the jolt of the fall knocked Daenerys unconscious.

Drogon set her down as gently into the snow as he could, and then made it to his feet, straddling her unconscious body. A group of wights that had been headed for the northern walls now made their way toward the dragon, roaring its defiance against the undead.

**Brienne**

“KHALEESI!” Brienne saw Ser Jorah Mormont strike down the two wights nearest to him and leapfrog over the northern battlements, Heartsbane in hand. Despite the fighting, Brienne struck down another wight and looked over the side to see that Jorah had landed on the side of the wight pile where none were crawling over them to get to the top. Improbably, he made it down to the ground and past the wights streaming to the walls and through the gate to get towards Daenerys and Drogon.

A sweep of Widow’s Wail separated a wight’s head from its body before it had a chance to grab Brienne and pull her over the walls. “Fucking madman,” Jaime said as he knocked a second wight to the ground with his golden hand. “He’s going to get killed.”

“You wouldn’t do that for anyone?” Brienne said as she turned to face the living wight ramp and the next wave of wights ready to come over the top, although just as many now swarmed throught the North Gate.

Jaime readied himself for the next charge. “Tyrion. And I guess you, too.” As the next wights came over the top, neither knight could meet the other’s gaze.

**Jon**

“NO!” he screamed as he saw Daenerys lying still in the snow underneath Drogon. He turned to see where the Night King and Viserion were, and saw them making a slow banking turn further to the west, headed to the wall around the godswood… and Jon realized who he was after next.

Despite everything he’d been through, all the horrors and all the deaths of both loved ones and others, he could not remember a time when he was more terrified. _My wife, or my brother and the vital part of the battle… I don’t want to choose. Gods… if you ever were with me, be with me now…_

_Jon, it will be all right. Follow the Night King._ The words echoed through his head, and it took him just a moment to recognize… _Bran?_

_There’s little time to talk_, his brother said mind to mind. _Daenerys lives. I am sending help to her, and to Arya too on the western wall. They will be fine. You need to attack the Night King, and kill Viserion._

_ _

_But how? _Jon said inside his head. _I’m not as good a dragonrider as Dany, I can’t beat the Night King on dragonback…_

_I’ll help you with that as well, trust me,_ Bran intoned. _You can bring the dawn, Brother. I know you have it in you._

Jon let out a heavy sigh. _Very well, Brother. Gods save Dany and us all._

_They are here tonight, trust me,_ Bran said. _The old gods, the Lord of Light… almost enough to fill the Great Hall for a feast, I think._

Despite himself, Jon laughed at the image. With that, he stopped circling over his bride and made his way toward the godswood wall. _I love you, Dany,_ Jon said, hoping she could sense his thoughts at least in some way like apparently his brother or his dragon could sense his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things:
> 
> 1\. The maneuver that Dany uses to intercept the Night King nearer the end of this chapter was inspired by a dogfighting technique known as the Thatch Weave. It was invented by a US Navy flyer by the same name during WWII and used by fighters working in teams of two to attack an enemy plane, and later became a standard maneuver in dogfighting.  
2\. It's been too long since I posted a new chapter, so I realized I'd rather post semi-regularly at least rather than go a long time between new chapters. So, that likely means that that I will split up the chapters into shorter bites rather than try and take an entire month to write a chapter.  
3\. This also means that The Battle of the Long Night is now a four-chapter section of the story rather than a three-chapter one. Is there any guarantee it won't grow to five chapters? Nope. Is there any guarantee I won't add on additional chapters? Nope. But, for right now, I think it's going to stay at 47 chapters. [EDIT: Lies, 48 chapters. EDIT 2.19.2020: Further lies, 49 chapters. The "epilogue" for the story just split into two.] That might change, however. [EDIT 2.19.2020: And how.]  
4\. Next will be Part III of the battle. Some more characters will die or get injured, and we're going to see how Bran is working to help out the old war effort. Which seems pretty obvious to anyone who reads the chapter, so I'm not considering those to be real spoilers. I also will say that if you notice, the action in Part III will start a bit before the end of Part II for logistical reasons having to do with dragonflight, etc.  
5\. As always, drop me a line in the comments and I'll get back to you. If you've noticed, I'm doing that a lot more than when I started this story, because I appreciate all the good words and critiques that you have. And for those of you who are writers as well, keep it up and best of luck with your stories.  
6\. [AUTHOR’S NOTE 2.15.2020: I’ll be getting started on the next part of The Long Night soon, but I’ve spent the past two days doing some revisions on previous chapters, everything from Chapter One to this one. There’s too many little changes to mention, but I think it’s a big improvement on what was before, so I’m glad I got to them.]


	28. The Long Night Part III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More of the living fall as chaos reigns at Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some heavy stuff, everyone. Let's get into it.

**28.**

**Arya**

_This is why I trained to fight all of those years. It was so I could be ready for this night, to defend my family and home._

She was a whirling, slashing, maelstrom of violence, deep into the water dance that she had learned years ago now from Syrio Forel. Her staff’s dragonglass blades continued to cut down wights crawling over the western wall of Winterfell, either in stabbing thrusts to the left and right or sweeping arcs around her. Her comrades in arms were giving her a wide berth for her to do damage to the undead and keep themselves out of harm’s way.

Everything that didn’t involve her destroying the dead she was trying to block out from her mind, or at least lock it up in a place where she couldn’t think about it. The idea of whether all her family members, Daenerys, or her other friends were still alive was locked away. Gendry had been right the other night when he’d said the dead were different than anything she’d ever faced, but she put that out of her head. She had no time for doubt or weariness if she wanted to survive.

From the corner of her eye, she saw more fighting playing out to her left. One of the three ice spiders with a White Walker rider came over the side there, the White Walker striking down at least four men and women with its ice spear.

However, just as the spider settled all its eight legs onto the ramparts, it let out a piercing scream as the Hound buried his double-bladed dragonglass ax into the top of its head. As the spider collapsed onto the ground, the White Walker lost its balance and tumbled to the ground headfirst. Wordlessly, it managed to get up onto its knees, but before it could stand, the Hound hurdled the now dead spider swinging his axe directly at the Walker’s head. It managed to hold up its ice spear in an attempt to parry the blow, but the axe’s blade cut the weapon directly in two and then did the same thing with the Walker’s face. “Fucking cunt icicle,” the Hound growled as the White Walker shattered. 

Gendry looked like a man possessed, crushing wight heads as soon as they popped up over the battlements. His war hammer had a steel and dragonglass head far bigger than a normal human head, and it was doing brutal work. She could see the apprehension in his bright cornflower blue eyes, but he kept swinging away anyway, at a more frentic pace as time went on.

Suddenly, there was a large groaning CRACK from below, and Arya realized right away that the Hunter’s Gate had given way. She speared a desperate wight off the battlements so she could look below. Two wight giants ducked their heads under the wall and through the gate, as a second ice spider-riding White Walker led a teeming mass of wights who had not managed to climb the wight ramps to the top of the walls.

The first wight giant stepped through the gate and into the courtyard only to get entangled by a chain held across the entryway by a group of crannogmen and other northerners. They didn’t stop the giant, but it was enough to trip him up and leave him face down in the courtyard mud. Before he could get up, the Unsullied detachment commanded by Grey Worm moved forward as one and dispatched it with dozens of dragonglass spears thrust into its torso.

The chain was not there to trip up the second wight giant, but it made the fatal error of standing too close to the wall, as had the giant through the north gate. However, Gendry had enough of a reach that he was able to connect his hammer to the giant’s head without having to leave the rampart. He buried the hammer into the top back part of the giant’s head, a sudden gushing torrent of black blood and likely brains spattering all around, particularly the young smith. He was clearing his eyes and mouth of the muck, making disgusted noises, as the giant tumbled to the ground.

**Grey Worm**

He gave silent thanks that the giants were now true corpses rather than maddened monsters ready to crush all before them. However, his Unsullied detachment was far from being in a safe place.

As the dust settled from the impact of the giants’ bodies hitting the courtyard ground, a White Walker riding a spider, ice spear brandished above its head. A mass of wights milled around the spider’s legs after not so much entering the courtyard as flowing into it. It reminded him of the behavior of the driver ants that were a dangerous nuisance in Astapor as a child, having to avoid their nests. He could see one of the wight “ramps” to the wall start to dissolve, and those wights part of the wall that were still viable were joining their brothers and sisters in passing through the gate. He thought he could even see an undead bear or two and at least one large predator cat among the human undead…

_Everything I have learned, all that I’ve experienced, all whom I’ve fought, has led me to this, _he thought. _Now we prove to the living and dead what the Unsullied are. We will shield the realms of men from this danger._

_“SHIELD WALL!” _Grey Worm called out in Valyrian to his men. As a single organism, they locked into place, bristling with dragonglass spears and crossbows to the rear, prepared to receive the dead.

**Arya**

Even with the chaos of wights starting to swarm the battlements and the living men barely able to keep them from overflowing into the courtyard like a flooding bathtub, she couldn’t help but stare for a moment at the man who had grown from a young, unsure blacksmith’s apprentice into, apparently, a warrior. _Bull can handle himself,_ she thought.

As he cleared the black muck from his eyes, Gendry’s gaze widened as he looked over Arya’s head. _“Arry! Behind you!”_

She turned to see that the third of the three White Walkers to come from the west was climbing over the battlements, its ice spider knocking four men off the ramparts and its mandibles tearing another two men to pieces before they fell to the courtyard. Both spider and rider turned to face the Wild Wolf of Winterfell and approach her.

Although she sensed more than saw Gendry starting to run to her aid, Arya was both quicker to react and quicker in pace. Sheathing her spear in the carrier Gendry had given her, she seemed to run straight at the White Walker, unarmed and unprotected. The spider opened its jaws wide and the White Walker readied its ice spear for a fatal thrust at the threat coming dead on.

Just as Arya got within a few yards of spider and rider, however, she dashed to her left and leapt toward the battlements. With her left foot, she pushed up and off one of the stone battlements, projecting her up and to the right. When the White Walker realized that her attack vector had changed and was looking up to see where she was at, she had pulled one of the dragonglass shards that she’d gotten from Gendry to use as throwing daggers out of her coat.

With a left-handed flick, she sent the dagger straight at the White Walker. As it entered his right eye socket, he shattered into a cloud of a hundred ice fragments that Arya flew through as she completed her jump.

However, she realized that she had misjudged her jump and had sent herself too far over to the right. Arya just managed to grab onto the ledge of the ramparts with both hands to keep herself from falling into the courtyard below. She struggled to pull herself up to the top, but the sight of the now riderless ice spider threatening her with its mandibles caused her to lose her breath.

The ice spider reared its head up as it seemed to prepare to strike her, but then it emitted a shrill, piercing scream. She saw the thing lunge to its right and heard a loud “Aaauuuhh” shouted out by a human more in exasperation than pain. _I know that voice…_

With an unthinking effort, she swung her legs over the ledge and got to her feet. She froze at the sight in front of her. Gendry had buried his hammer squarely in the abdomen of the spider, rupturing it like an overripe grape with black juice rather than clear. However, the same spider, whether in its death throes or not, had swung its head around and penetrated the top left part of Gendry’s chest with its left mandible, a good few inches at least.

“NOOOOO!” she howled as she lept forward, drawing Catspaw from her belt and burying the blade into the top of the spider’s head. Like a puppet cut off from its strings, the spider slumped to the ground, dragging both Arya and Gendry, both still attached, dangerously close to the edge of the rampart.

With a few swift, hard tugs, Arya managed to free the dagger from the spider’s head. She slid over the bloodied spider body, getting even more of the black blood over herself after spattering her face and body with it. “Gendry… Bull? Wake up… fucking Seven Hells,” she stuttered.

Gendry was unconscious, splayed out on the ground and still connected to the ice spider’s corpse by that black, hooked mandible. Getting more desperate by the minute, fear growing that Gendry was dying or would be soon pulled over to the side, Arya began tugging at the spider’s jaw, trying to free him. “Come on… come on.”

The Hound suddenly loomed over her. _“Move,” _he commanded.

As Arya jumped up, the Hound swung his dragonglass axe at the spider and severed the mandible in two, leaving a section about a foot long still buried in the blacksmith’s chest as the spider’s corpse tumbled into the courtyard. Sheathing the axe on his back, he reached down and extracted that section from Gendry. Some bright red blood began to ooze from the hole, and Arya quickly ripped a section of somewhat clean cloth from one of the dead Northerners and stuffed it into the hole in Gendry’s gabeson. “No no no no…” she heard someone almost chanting, and she realized it was her.

“The fuck are you doing, girl?” the Hound growled as he leaned down to see what was going on.

She sat up and hurled a dragonglass throwing dagger at a wight coming over the wall, but then she was befuddled… “Where’s there rest of them?” she said. “None of them are coming over the wall anymore…”

“That’s because they’ve got an open gate to go through down below! Are you that thick?”

She looked down at Gendry, his eyes closed and his body still as she tried to stop the bleeding. A dread terror set in, and if anything it was as bad as when she’d seen her father on the execution block and her brother’s headless body riding outside Riverrun.

_It didn’t work, you stupid girl. It still hurts like all the others. _She shook him by the shoulders as she tried to wake him. “You stupid bull, you can’t die now. You can’t die… _I love you, you hear me? I’m not letting you leave me, too. I love you!” _Her voice was a ragged howl at the end.

She felt a hand on her shoulder and try to brush it off, but the Hound kept it clamped on. “What?” she cried.

“Arya,” he said in a voice as gentle as she ever remembered it, “the idiot’s still breathing.” He pointed to the clouds of water vapor coming from Gendry’s mouth.

Tears flowed down her face, streaking the black blood that covered much of it. “Help us.”

With a groan, he reached down. “The thing’s I’ve gone through for you and your sister,” he huffed. “Get that fucking staff and keep any of those undead cunts off me.”

She unsheathed it and separated it into two short spears as the Hound somehow gathered Gendry up on the shoulder not carrying his ax. “All right,” she said, sounding more on solid ground. “Follow me.”

They walked past Edd, who was shoving another of the few wights still trying to climb the walls rather than walk through the doorways off the wall with his dragonglass spear. “We need to get to the infirmary,” Arya said in a cracking voice.

“It’s all right,” Edd said. “In a bit we might have to get down there and help them out. Go.”

They hurried down the staircase to the courtyard. In the corner of her eye, she saw the Unsullied in the center of a line holding against the swarm of undead coming through the now open gates, trampling over the now truly dead giants that had opened the way, and the last White Walker in the area, still on its ice spider, urging the wights forward. With the way the Unsullied in the center and the Northerners on the flanks were bracing themselves, they were holding back an undead tide, a tide that threatened to overflow all before them. Arya had to spear one blinded and maddened wight flying over the living lines and toward her before she and the Hound could squeeze past them and toward the Great Keep.

The door was barred when Arya rapped on it with one of her spears. “Come on, I’ve got wounded here!” she hollered out. After someone slid the eyehole open and looked out, the door creaked open.

As she walked in, followed by The Hound carrying Gendry, they were surrounded by a group of men – Arya recognized Ser Joren among them.

She saw Sansa appear from behind the door to the ground floor hall, and the sisters locked eyes for a moment. Sansa took in her sister’s blood and grime-marred face and clothes. Then she looked behind Arya and realized why it appeared she had been crying.

“I need a maester or healer for this man,” Arya called out, managing to keep control of the pitch of her voice.

Without a word, Sansa pulled her cloak around herself with one hand. With the other, she gestured to a smaller, blond woman in a dark brown robe and dress, wearing a white apron already stained with blood, who appeared from one of the corridors. _It’s the healer from Meereen… or Lys, isn’t it? _she thought. “What’s wrong with him?” Serenei asked.

“With me,” Arya said, commanding even though she never considered herself a lady.

Arya, followed first by the Hound carrying Gendry and by Serenei, walked up two flights of stairs. She was only mindful of the weight the Hound was carrying when he took a moment to lean against one of the walls at the top of the stairs, but not for long. “Come on!” she insisted, leading them to a corridor and through one of the doors.

“Whose chambers are these, my lady...?” Serenei said as they stepped in.

“Mine,” Arya was matter-of-fact in the admission as she reached over and threw the covers off her bed and then reached over to help the Hound guide Gendry securely onto it. “He has a puncture wound in his left breast… I don’t know how deep it got.”

As the Hound slumped onto a padded footstool to catch his breath (it was a gift from Arya’s mother which had mainly collected dust the past couple of years), Serenei removed the rag stuffed into the hole and took a look at the wound. “Looks like he lost a good amount of blood… doesn’t look like it punctured his lungs, at least…”

“He’s not waking up, is that…”

“He’s in shock for sure, but that’s not horrible news,” Serenei said, her tone trying to reassure the younger woman. “We need to get him cleaned off and stitched up.” She reached into her bag and withdrew a small blade, handing it to Arya. “We need to get him undressed – cut off his clothes if you need to. Also, check to see if he has any other injuries.”

“Right,” Arya said. “I can help with stitches, too – I always did better with people than dresses or needlework. Ho… Sandor. Could you please fetch us some water here? There’s a pitcher on the dresser over there and you can just get some from the bronze tub over in the corner.”

The use of his given name prompted Clegane to rise from his stool and go forth with only a _huff _of annoyance.

**Brienne**

“Where did all the wights go?” Podrick said.

Shoving one of the now inert wights off the wall, Brienne looked out both at the battlefield to the north and the battlefield that was developing in the northern section of the courtyard. “Apparently the wights fancy just walking through the doors rather than climbing up themselves to the tops of the walls,” she said.

Jaime scanned the east and the south walls, where many of the defenders were now moving off the walls to fight in the now occupied castle grounds. “I’d think the Others would try to attack some of the other walls, overwhelm us while our attention is elsewhere,” he said.

“Guess the undead don’t fancy battle strategy as much as Golden Boy, here,” Ser Bronn snorted as he shoved another inert wight off the battlements. “Anyway, _they’ve_ still got their hands full,” pointing further west down the northern wall, where the Freefolk and the remaining fighters of Houses Mormont, Umber, and Glover were in a fierce fight, with the wights almost flowing over sections of the living fighters rather than clashing into them.

“It looks like they’re actually making a counter-charge,” Ser Jaime said. “Pretty ambitious of them.”

“The Freefolk in particular are a unique lot,” Brienne said, taking her own survey of the action. “The Others are concentrating on the open gates and not attacking the walls anymore,” she shouted over the roar of the fighting. “We might have to help the Unsullied and Northerners trying to hold the line there.”

“And leave this part of the wall unguarded?” Jaime said. “We leave this place unattended, the Others might try to come up here.”

“Sers, what about the Queen?” Podrick shouted, pointing to the roaring Drogon standing sentinel in between the lines of palisades in the fields directly north. “Her dragon is protecting her and Ser Jorah went to fetch her, but I don’t think they’ll be enough to hold off the Others. Look, some of those in front of the gate are actually heading over there.”

“There’s barely any chance we could get to her, much less protect her when we get there,” Brienne argued. “Besides, the king will get to her soon enough.”

“But the king’s moving away, isn’t he?” Podrick said.

“What, he’s abandoning her?” Bronn scoffed.

“More likely going after the Night King… look, we need to hold here,” Brienne concluded. “We can at least guarantee anyone coming up here will see a fight.”

“Yes, I see your point M… Ser Brie… LOOK OUT!” Podrick hurled his dragonglass spear in what appeared to be a throw towards the lady knight’s head.

A roar and a looming shape overshadowing Brienne let the trio of knights know that something totally different was going on. What appeared to be an undead bear, with mangey and bloodied fur and what appeared to be a disemboweling injury gave a hollowed roar as it brandished its front claws over her, ready to maul Brienne.

Podrick’s spear caught the bear directly in the underside of his throat, penetrating all the way into the undead beast’s skull, it seemed. It reared back, then collapsed on top of a grunting Ser Brienne, pinning her to the rampart with a grunt. “Uhhh… good throw Podrick.”

“Happy to assist, Ser…” Podrick began, but was hit by a light grey blur that nearly knocked him off the wall but ended up sending him crashing into the nearby tower.

The Westerlands squire was getting mauled by what appeared to be an undead grey saber-toothed tiger – an uncommon but not unheard-of creature in its living form, especially in the lands Beyond the Wall. The not quite dead cat tore into Podrick’s unarmored sides with its forepaws as the squire fumbled for the dragonglass dagger at his belt. Both Ser Jaime with Widow’s Wail and Ser Bronn with his own dragonglass spear threw themselves at the cat. Before they could strike, however, the tiger reared back and buried its razor-sharp canines into the left side of Podrick’s neck.

The knight’s weapons destroyed the tiger, but Podrick was left holding a neck that seemed to be pumping out a pint of blood a minute. “Ser Jaime, get this thing off me,” yelled Brienne, and it took the combined efforts of him and Ser Bronn to roll the undead bear off the female knight and down into the courtyard below.

Once she was free, she scooted over to Podrick, who was in a losing battle to staunch the flow of blood from his neck with his left hand, the blood beginning to coat the entire left side of his body. “Podrick, thank you,” Brienne said, trying to put the full force of her sincerity behind her words. “You saved my life.”

“What kind of squire would I be if I did not look out for you?” the young man croaked with a smile.

She turned to both Jaime and Bronn, who had now flanked her next to Podrick. Bronn was ashen as he examined the young man he’d given so much grief to over the years. Jaime said nothing, but gave the slightest shake of his head to answer the unspoken question she had for him.

Taking a deep breath, tears already starting to form in her eyes, she stood above Pod with Oathkeeper in her hand. _Any knight can make a knight._ She laid her blade down flat onto Podrick’s right shoulder.

“In the name of the Warrior I charge you to be brave,” she said, her voice unsteady but her heart true. “In the name of the Father I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother I charge you to defend the young and innocent. In the name of the Maid I charge you to protect all women....” When she finished, she leaned down to hear his vow.

**Arya **

Within a few minutes, Serenei had finished stitching and binding the now undressed but still unconscious Gendry’s chest wound, adding a healing poultice on top of it for good measure. At the same time, Arya had made quick work of stitching up two smaller wounds he’d picked up on his left arm and thigh.

“Girl, we’ve got to get back to it,” the Hound growled at Arya.

“I know,” she sighed, straightening up and self-consciously pulling the furs on her bed over to cover Gendry up to his lap. “Is he going to be all right?”

Serenei came over to Arya. “He’s lost a bit of blood for sure, but if we give him enough water, enough rest… he’s strong enough, I think it’s likely he’ll pull through.”

The former slave was surprised to have Arya all but fall into her arms. “Thank you for everything,” she said. “You’ll keep an eye on him when you can?”

“Of course,” Serenei said, patting her on the shoulder.

“Thank you.” Parting from her, Arya walked back to the sleeping Gendry and laid a kiss on his still lips. “I love you,” she whispered into his ear. Standing up, she told the Hound, “Let’s go.”

They walked out of the room as Serenei made a last-minute check on Gendry before she went to examine some of the other wounded that had been taken to the Great Keep. “So, it looks like you’ll have to admit you love the cunt whenever he wakes up, eh?” the Hound said with a laugh.

She turned to face him, left eyebrow cocked behind all of the grime and muck. “Why, you’re mistaken, Sandor,” she said teasingly. “He’s the one who’s in love with the cunt.”

Arya was already several steps down the corridor before he realized her jape. “The septas back in my day would have had the switches out for you with those thoughts,” he growled.

She turned around, skipping as she went. “Good thing there’s no septa around and the Old Gods don’t care about that nonsense,” she said before turning back around.

The Hound simply grumbled, “Fucking Stark girls,” and followed her down the hall.

**Jon**

_Faster, boy. There’s not much more time,_ he thought to Rhaegal.

They banked into a long, arching turn to the right, curving along the edge of the battlefield. Looking down, he saw the masses of wights and the main Dothraki horde tearing into each other. While the Dothraki, both the mounted light cavalry and archer cavalry alike, were turning the white plains north of Winterfell red with their own blood, they were taking down a large number of the dead in turn. _After I deal with the undead dragon and get Dany to safety, I need to release Rhaegal to burn whatever dead he can. It’ll be the only thing that will turn the tide._

The swirling snow and winds that had masked the approach of the Others until they were outside the defenses of Winterfell now covered not only the outer battlefield, but the skies above the castle as well. He only had a vague idea of where the Night King and its dragon were…

_Head to the wall outside the godswood and attack_, he heard Bran say to him. _You can stop him, trust me._

There was little confidence in Jon, but he had confidence in his brother. That would have to be enough.

Jon realized he had two advantages, however: first, the Night King could not sense the minds or thoughts of normal humans. _Hopefully he wasn’t listening in on my last conversation with Bran,_ he thought. Second, that combined with the snowstorm might give him the chance to get the literal drop on him.

He now urged Rhaegal into a gentle climb, just enough to ensure that they were above the castle walls. Jon could barely see where they were at – he could only tell by the faint glow of the outer burning Wolfswood to his right that they were flying down the western side of the castle…

A long blue line of flame shot out in the midst of the whirling snow. It was well ahead of Jon and Rhaegal and just below them, but they could hear what sounded like a rock slide or avalanche. With perfect clarity, Jon realized that Viserion was bringing down the outside wall around the godswood.

_Now, _he thought.

He urged Rhaegal into a shallow dive, just enough to pick up some speed. Jon quietly urged him to be ready to attack when the time came. For a few seconds that seemed like minutes, all they could see was the blue column of flame, the looming castle to their left, and the glow of the burning Wolfswood to the right.

In a frozen instant in time, the swirling snows cleared enough that he could see clearly before him. Viserion was hovering at a height right at the castle walls, its flames boring a hole into the walls of Winterfell protecting the godswood from the outside. With the increasing number of holes in its wings, Viserion was forced to beat them faster to maintain his spot in the air. There were several long-jagged wounds in its side, and there was one on the left side of the poor creature’s face that had blue flames drifting out of it. The Night King was staring directly at the castle, directly in the direction of Brandon Stark seated at the heart tree. Viserion also stared straight ahead, not moving except for its beating wings, its eyes…

Its _white_ eyes, not ice blue. In an instant, he realized what was going on.

Jon urged Rhaegal downward. _He’s not your brother anymore, boy,_ he said to him. _He’s gone, we must end his suffering._

_ Yes, Kepa._

He aimed Rhaegal at the right spot on Viserion – there was no doubt where that was this time. They got closer, Jon and his dragon kept quieter than the din of battle as to not alert the Night King… as they grew closer, Jon feared for Bran, for what would happen if they struck. It was not until they loomed over Viserion that Jon called out _BRAN!_

Viserion’s eyes flickered to ice blue in the split second before Rhaegal reached him.

With a tremendous CRUNCH Rhaegal’s jaws clamped shut across Viserion’s neck. The momentum of the emerald dragon carried both him and his undead former brother cartwheeling through the air. _Now, boy!_ Jon called out in his mind.

Rhaegal’s jaws clamped tight as Viserion’s claws scrambled across his side in a desperate attempt to fend off the attack, blue flames flowing wildly through the air from Viserion’s mouth and side of his face. Rhaegal whipped his neck right, left, and right with his prize well in his mouth, as both Jon and the Night King struggled to maintain their holds.

With the last thrash to the right, Rhaegal’s jaws snapped tight as it severed Viserion’s spinal column. Viserion’s head, the flames dying out, tumbled to the ground just before the burning trees of the Wolfswood. The undead dragon’s body tumbled as a rag doll thrown by a child into the burning trees. The Night King lost hold of his mount just before his body tumbled after it into the raging fire.

For everything that had happened, his first thoughts were not on his win – _well, it wasn’t my win alone,_ he thought. _BRAN?_

**Bran**

His eyes had returned to their grey as he sat and faced the crumbled outer western wall enclosing the godswood. As the Fiery Hand formed a shield wall in their position and Ser Beric drew closer to him, he felt something running from his right nostril. He brought a finger up to it and came away with blood. _Other than the nosebleed, I seem fine_, he thought.

He heard his brother’s call. _I’m fine_, he thought to his brother. _Go get Daenerys now. After she is safe, come for me. The Night King will be here soon._

_ _

Kinvara – Melisandre seemed out of his sight at that moment – continued to lead the Fiery Hand in chants to their Red God as they prepared for attack. _The night is dark and full of terrors indeed_, Bran thought, follower of the Lord of Light, the Old Gods, or otherwise.

**Sansa**

_Thud._

A slow, pounding racket began to shake the main doors of the Great Keep. Sansa noticed Ghost’s ears immediately perking up, a low growl as he braced himself next to her side, ready to pounce.

She saw Ser Joren walk toward the door with his spear in hand. It was taller than him by at least a foot, with an ironwood shaft and a dragonglass head as big as some daggers. “Ser Joren?” she called out. “Are they… wounded? People in need?”

He opened the spy slot for a moment, then slammed it shut and walked backward. “No. Not wounded. And not welcome guests.” He turned around and faced his men, as well as Sansa, Missandei, Varys, Maester Wolkan, and the other noncombatants in the hall. “My Lady, the rest of you, prepare to defend yourselves.” With that, he unslung a shield with the high white mountain sigil of the Flints of the Mountains from his back, and ordered his men to join him in a shield wall around the entryway.

As the pounding grew in both speed and intensity, Sansa drew both of her dragonglass daggers tucked into her belt from behind her back. _I might not be a fighter,_ she thought to herself, _but I will fight for my home and family if I must._ Ghost’s growl rose in volume at its shoulders tensed.

The _crack _from the door echoed throughout the keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone surprised this battle's going for five chapters rather than three? I'm not.
> 
> Anyone surprised this story's grown from, what, 45 chapters to 50? I'm not.
> 
> Anyway, we'll see a rescue and what Bran meant by him sending help to everyone.
> 
> As always, please leave kudos if you dig this story and leave comments. I will respond to them and I love the give and take.
> 
> For all the writers out there, hope you keep writing, because you always inspire me.
> 
> Just hit 300 kudos! That is a decent number.


	29. The Long Night Part IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More fall as the Dragon Queen is in peril.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and more chills and spills, everyone. Enjoy.

29.

**Arya**

As she walked down the stairwell of the Great Keep to its ground floor, she stuck the two halves of her staff behind her back crosswise into her belt. “Bet it’s a bloody massacre out there,” she hissed, preparing herself mentally for getting back into combat.

“That’s _without_ the Night King thinking about reviving any of the dead cunts that were fighting beside us,” growled the Hound, following on her heels.

“Hopefully Jon’s doing okay above us…”

The screams rang out from below, men and women alike, and the distorted barking of canines whose howls were rusty from disuse. _Sansa_.

“For fuck’s sake, COME ON!” she barked in her best Hound impression at the man himself before vaulting down the stairs two at a time. The Hound raced after her, if not at the same pace; he’d heard the same screams himself.

As she jumped to the bottom of the stairs and ran down the corridor to the main meeting hall, she dug into her jacket. She had four dragonglass throwing daggers remaining from her supply, and she got two of them ready as she came to the main entrance.

Black and red blood flew, spattering living, dead, and soon to be dead in the hall. Ser Joren’s men, assisted by Ghost, were in a desperate fight with a motley blend of wights, and a pack of reanimated wolves. Ghost was holding his own against the smaller canines, with a few claw marks down his sides for his troubles.

She let the two daggers in her hands fly at two of the wolves harassing Ghost. One flew over the intended target since she was still running, but the second buried itself into a wolf’s side and sent it crumpling to the ground. Arya grabbed her last two daggers and then sent them whistling through the air as well, bringing down another wolf and killing another wight by burying itself in its left eye socket.

The screams of the wounded and dying were shrill in her ears as she drew her short spears. She saw a boy with straw-colored hair, not quite Bran’s age, screaming and clutching a leg shredded by a wolf’s claws. On the floor next to the boy she saw the Master of Whisperers, Lord Varys, grimacing silently as he appeared to be trying to hold his intestines inside himself, with more than a few escaping.

A familiar shriek rang out from inside the hall, but it was more angry than frightened. She turned to look and to her shock, saw her sister ramming one of the daggers she had given her up into the back of the neck of a wight about to swing an ancient bronze sword at Missandei’s neck. The wight went down, but an undead, one-eyed, and one-eared wolf landed right at Sansa’s feet and snarled at her and the Naath woman in what sounded like a broken, hollow growl. Sansa backed up, facing the wolf with a dagger in each hand, trying to use her body to shield Missandei.

She ran towards her sister and her friend, spears brandished. However, before the beast could leap up at them, she saw Ser Joren lunge forward, spear extended and shield on his left arm, and skewered it between the shoulder blades. He stood up straight and it looked like he was about to say something to the stunned women in front of them when a second undead wolf jumped onto the knight and mauled his back with both his front paws.

Ser Joren tumbled to the floor and rolled over onto his back, managing to get his shield up and placed in between himself and the wolf who was lunging at him with his jaws, trying to get at that throat or head. Sansa was frozen in terror, watching the scene unfold in front of her, her daggers pointed toward the chaos in front of her…

…when Arya leaped onto the creature’s back and skewered its neck with her spears. She pulled it off to the side as Joren collapsed on the ground, shield clattering to the side.

Sansa dropped her daggers and ran to Joren, grabbing him by the shoulders. With Missandei’s help, she pulled him off to the side of the room, sitting behind him and holding him as they sat together. Arya heard her asking Missandei to try and find some cloth to try and cover up Joren’s wounds.

Arya turned around and saw the gore covering the floors and walls of her home, the pain and the anguish of the living fighting to remain that way, and some last bit of restraint in her snapped like a twig._ They’re not getting my sister! They’re not getting Gendry!_

“THAT FUCKING DOES IT!” she howled.

She jumped onto the back of a rampaging wight, driving her spears through its eyes. She whirled and leaped in the dance of death, in constant motion, grinding through the Others as the black and red blood of others began to saturate her coat, hair, and face. One wight and wolf after the other fell to her razor-sharp dragonglass blades. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Hound joining in, swinging his double-bladed ax left and right, cutting anything down in front of them. _We give many sacrifices to the Many-Faced God this night._

Suddenly, there was a tumult by the doorway to the keep. An entire pack of wolves and direwolves, _living _wolves and direwolves, barreled through the doorway and began tearing through the intruders, ripping them apart with tooth and claw until, finally, they were silent piles of rags, fur, and blood.

Two direwolves started to stroll toward her after the intruders had been dispatched. One was a huge russet-colored specimen with dark eyes; somehow, she sensed it was male. It walked protectively next to a female of the same size, a grey and white girl with amber eyes…

“N…Nymeria?” she whispered as the two padded up to her, fully calm after their killing spree was done. “Wh…how? How did you come here? How did you know…?”

Nymeria stared into her eyes as she approached Arya and let her run her hand over her head once she put her spears away. For the briefest of seconds, her amber eyes turned totally white, then flashed back to normal. _Bran,_ she realized.

“Girl? It’s… it’s good to see you, girl,” Arya said.

A _huff _and someone running into something behind her prompted her to turn around. Lord Tyrion had collapsed and was leaning against the entryway, out of breath, lugging along a dragonglass spear that was at least three times his height. “I… I saw the wolves breaking in,” he said.

She nodded to him, smiling. “I appreciate the thought,” she said to him, “but things are under control now.”

Tyrion’s spear clattered to the floor as he saw Varys lying on the ground, blood and guts escaping him as Maester Wolkan, who had dodged the attackers, now attempted to try and bind Varys’ wounds in any fashion that would help him.

Tyrion kneeled next to his old friend and took his hand as the maester continued his work. He looked over at his former wife comforting the knight from the North, running her hand over his head as she cradled him in her arms as they sat against the wall.

“My Lady, if you’re not careful, all this blood will ruin that dress of yours. It would be a shame,” he gasped out.

“Will you shut up and rest,” she hissed, then kissed him on the top of her head, appearing as if she was about to burst into tears.

Arya turned back to Nymeria as Ghost approached the two marginally larger direwolves and reintroduced himself to his sister with the appropriate amounts of mutual sniffing and snorts.

“Who is this?” Arya said, pointing at the large russet direwolf. “Is this your mate?”

Nymeria responded by licking Arya’s face, enough so that she cleared at least her eyes and cheeks of the blood that had spattered onto there.

Arya rested her head against Nymeria’s. _I need you to go to my room, you remember where it was? There’s a man there. He’s… my mate, like yours. Look out for him, please. I’ll see you later._

With a final _huff _and a lick of her cheek, Nymeria went down the hallway with her mate in tow toward her room. Ghost, following his master’s instructions, padded over to Sansa and Ser Joren, laying down next to them with an eye toward the open doorway.

“This turned into a fucking disaster,” the Hound pronounced as he sheathed his axe and examined the damage.

Ignoring him, Arya walked over to her sister, who was still trying to comfort the bleeding Joren. She leaned down and kissed her older sister on the forehead.

“Thank you,” Sansa told her as she wiped her eyes clear of tears. “Father and Mother would be proud of you.” After that, they waited for what would come next.

**Daenerys**

She awoke in a fog, a snowy nightmare of the teeming dead and their unnatural howls, as well as the rumbling shriek of her child and his fire.

She was laying face-up on the ground, with a throbbing pain in the back of her head and neck. Immediately in front of her face, she saw the black scales of Drogon’s belly as he stood guard over her. Looking down over her feet as she laid on the ground, barely pushing herself up so her elbows braced her on the ground, she could see Drogon shooting short sputs of flame at any wights that approached from the front, as well as lashing out with his teeth at others. Glancing behind her, she saw Drogon swinging his tail back and forth, clearing away bundles of wights at a time while also using its wings to stop others from crawling underneath to get to his mother.

As strong as Drogon was, she realized that he was fighting a losing battle against the dead. Through her connection with her dragon, she realized that a swarm of the wights was now on his back and struggling to crawl underneath his wings. She could feel the stings of dozens of small wounds from the teeth or occasional weapons of the undead through her connection to Drogon. Individually, they could do nothing to her child, but if things continued… _I will not lose another of my children to the dead, no matter what. Drogon, _soves.

_No, Muna!_ rang in her ears.

Soves, _Drogon! Save yourself! _Even though no noise was involved, the effort to “yell” to Drogon increased the throbbing in her head and neck, blurring her vision as well.

With a rumbling growl showing his displeasure at the command, Drogon spun in a circle, letting off one last long blast of dragonfire in all directions to clear away the wights from his mother. Rising in the air, he took at least two dozen wights with him that were trying to cling on to his hide across his back. Bucking in midair to get rid of his trespassers, he made his way in the skies to the east.

She now stood in the center of a burning circle of wights, but their undead comrades in arms were already picking their way through the burning corpses to get to her. She withdrew her dragonglass arakh to defend herself. One wight ran at her from her right-hand side, hands reaching and teeth snapping. She made a sweeping swing and crashed through the being’s skull with her weapon, but the effort redoubled her headache so much that she began to stagger and feel like she was about to vomit. Daenerys’ weapon fell to the ground as she leaned over and put her hands on her thighs to brace herself… the wights got closer…

With far more spring in his step than a man his age wearing plate armor had a right to expect, Ser Jorah Mormont flew from the nearby palisades and cut down two wights with Heartsbane. As he skidded to her side, she found herself having to rest her head on his chest in a valiant effort to keep upright. “Khalessi.”

“Should have known you’d come to the rescue, my true friend,” Daenerys said, her voice wavering. “Wish you had more with you…”

At that, a group of 50 riders thundered into the clearing, forming a moving circle around the queen and her knight. For a moment, she thought their leader was her first husband, Drogo, but then she remembered he was long dead and she married to another man. _Khal Doro_, she remembered, and even that thought was enough to tire her weary, battered mind.

“Bloodriders to the rescue…” the queen whispered to Jorah, and slumped, now unconscious, into his arms.

**Jorah**

_Desperate is hardly the word, _the northern knight thought as he sheathed Heartsbane so that he could gather Danerys in his arms.

He caught a glimpse at the maniacally grinning Khal Doro, having the time of his life directing his bloodriders in a whirling circle of protection against the wights. He noticed the slashes on the Khal’s arms and mount, noticed that nearly every rider and mount in his detail had some form of injury. _“How has the fight gone?”_ Jorah asked in Dothraki.

That prompted a laugh from the energized Khal. _“Well-met, Jorah Andal. It was rough going to get here, but we did it just fine,” _Khal Doro said, which was Dothraki-speak for “half of our men got slaughtered but we gave as good as we got.”

_“Could you ride with the queen and get to the castle?” _he asked, nodding toward the granite shape of Winterfell.

With that, the khal made an exasperated grunt. _“I’d do it, but I don’t think we’d have any men left before we made it to the walls. No, we will stay and defend her to the death.”_

_“Maybe the dragon can collect her and take her to the castle…” _Jorah said.

Doro gestured to the east. _“He headed that way to shake the dead off its back… I don’t know when it’s coming back, Andal. We might be stuck here.”_

Desperation built in Jorah. _I’d run with her to get to the castle myself, but I’d have less luck than the Dothraki on horseback…_

Suddenly, Jorah froze as he saw a speck of emerald green in the sky, approaching from the southwest, descending as it approached. _Thank the Old Gods and the New Gods,_ Jorah thought. He turned to Doro, who was directing the running defense of the Dothraki despite having his riders and horses go down one after the other. _“Doro, can you hold this circle against the dead for two minutes?”_

Laughing, Doro swung his arakh and sent another wight head flying. _“We could hold this circle against the god of death for two minutes! Go!”_

Jorah saw a small boulder in the center of the Dothraki circle. Managing to balance himself on it, he held the unconscious form of his khaleesi up and in front of him, hoping that the king or his dragon or both would understand his plan. He saw Rhagal diving toward the ground, almost as if was about to crash into it…

At the last second, Rhaegal pulled up and drifted to a hover above Jorah with Jon riding him. Jorah held up the queen as high as he could, offering her to her child. _Take her, boy. Take her._

With the care that a mother would in cradling her baby, Rhaegal reached out with its right foot and gathered his mother in his grasp. “Go!” the knight from Bear Island hollered over the din of battle to his fellow Northerner. “Get her to safety.”

**Jon**

He saw the tornado cloud of Dothraki fighting off swarms of wights trying to attack them or pull them down off their horses. He also saw the tears in the eyes of the old Bear Knight as he performed one last service for his queen. _This was a true knight,_ Jon thought.

“Thank you, Ser Jorah, for everything,” Jon said. Then, he looked to Rhaegal. “_Soves_.”

With a few beats of his wings, Rhaegal lifted off and winged his way toward the castle.

**Jorah**

As Rhaegal headed off to the castle, Jorah drew Heartsbane and hopped off the boulder. _“It looks like we’re fucked, my khal!” _Jorah called out to Doro in Dothraki.

The khal took down another wight with his arakh, but another of his men got pulled down by a swarm of grasping wights. _“We might be, but I’m at peace. I will die undefeated in battle, the best fate of a Dothraki.”_

_“How do you know that?” Jorah yelled. “We might be dead by the time those dragons get back here.”_

_“Ah, yes, maybe us, but look there,” _Doro said, pointing north to several looming shapes approaching the Dothraki fighters in line fighting against the bulk of the Army of the Dead. _“My boys are getting reinforcements.”_

Jorah stared at the shapes for a moment, then realized… _Giants. “Just what we need – more undead giants we have to fight off.”_

_“Not undead, Andal, not undead at all. Look!” _He pointed to a mist emenating from their heads. _“Do the dead have need of breath?”_

He realized Doro was correct – they were _living_ giants, not dead ones. He looked down at Heartsbane. _Let’s see what I can really do with Valyrian steel, _he thought as he grabbed one of the riderless horses and prepared to join the fight.

**Grey Worm**

Under the circumstances, he thought the men were fighting well.

He was still frustrated about the fact that the undead animals had managed to punch through the lines and deeper into the courtyard, but he had no control over that because they had managed to get through the Northerners’ lines on the flanks, rather than the Unsullied lines. However, Green Slug, whose men were being unused due to the undead to the south having failed to make their way through the burning winter town and assaulting the gates there, came to help reinforce the lines before the Hunters Gate. Now, they were holding steady, if not unscathed.

The Unsullied now formed what would seem to be one half of a hexagonal shape, with his original detachment forming a line parallel to the gate and Green Slug’s men holding the flanks at oblique angles so that any of the wights or undead animals could no longer run around Grey Worm’s men.

As they did against their living opponents, the tactics of the Unsullied remained the same as against the Others. They moved as one organism, a wall of shields keeping back steel, bronze, tooth, and claw alike while leaving just enough room for their dragonglass spears to reach out and extinguish the existence of wight after wight. Occasionally, one of the creatures, often the larger undead wolves, bears, or great cats, would pull down one of the shields and suck an unfortunate Unsullied hoplite into the maelstrom of animated frenzy. But for the most part, they were holding firm against the press from the Army of the Dead. _Perhaps the best opponents against an army with no feelings or emotions are soldiers who can fight with dispassion and order,_ he thought.

He saw some of the soldiers shifting positions as his Unsullied had to compensate for the success of the dead on some fronts and the lack of success on others. With the southern wall mostly unscathed except for a determined wight group climbing the walls, Edmure had sent Alys Karstark and her men to the northern wall to assist the Freefolk and their fellow Northerners. They had to dodge in between the catapults in the courtyard, which were mainly abandoned now that most of the Others were inside the machine’s minimum range.

He looked again at the crowd of dead in front of them, crawling over each other with the intention of climbing over the Unsullied and moving further into the castle. However, the back rows of Unsullied soldiers held their spearpoints high over the heads of their front-line comrades, keeping them at bay.

Suddenly, he gazed into the center of the bulge of wights trying to break into the courtyard. The one White Walker had been leading them on top of his ice spider was nowhere to be found. He looked both outside the gate and on the inner walls to see if he was climbing up one of them, but there was no sign of him either.

Grey Worm was too experienced of a general not to wonder at the absence of a commanding officer, for the lack of a better term, from a battlefield. Usually, that meant that the enemy planned to shift forces to another location. _If that’s the case here, then where are they shifting…?_

A shrieking _roar_ startled Grey Worm out of his stance to turn and look upward. With the greatest of care, the dragon Rhaegal descended from the sky, gingerly poking its way through the still-standing but now vacant catapults until it was hovering over the ground. The Unsullied general saw that the creature had something in its right talon and was reaching for the ground. The minute he recognized his Khalessi’s form, he informed Green Slug to take over command and raced over to the looming emerald form.

With a gentle touch Grey Worm did not think a dragon that size had, he laid Queen Daenerys onto an open patch of mud. As he approached her unconscious form, he saw Jon Snow slide off the back of the dragon and leap to the ground. _“Soves,_ Rhaegal, find your brother and get after the dead!”

As Rhaegal obeyed his rider and lifted up and to the east of the castle, Jon reached down and gathered his wife into his arms. “What happened to the Khaleesi? We could not see from here,” Grey Worm said.

“She fell off Drogon, but the big boy caught her just in time,” Jon said as he lifted her up. “Took a nasty knock, though. I need to get her to the maesters.”

“Some of them should be in the Great Keep…” Grey Worm began, but trailed off as he saw the open doors to the keep and what appeared to be blood trailing out of the doorway. “Missandei.”

“Grey Worm, dammit!” Jon said as he trailed the Unsullied commander as he sprinted through the muck and the chaos to the open doorway.

**Jon**

He entered the keep, his wife in his arms, to find chaos.

Bodies of humans and animals alike, both recently living and long past living, were strewn on the floor, covered in red and black blood. He was surprised not to see just one direwolf in the room, but what looked like at least four of them, including Ghost. They were joined by a small pack of regular-sized wolves as well, all staring at the new intruders but keeping steady in their spots.

Several of the men on the floor he recognized as being from House Flint of the Mountains. One of them was Ser Joren Snow, who to his surprise Sansa was cradling in her arms as she sat down at the doorway to the ground floor dining hall. Based on the cloth that was wadded up behind his back and the bloodstains, he could tell he was bleeding from there. Missandei was next to her, in shock and spattered with blood but apparently not wounded. Grey Worm had wrapped her up in his arms and buried his head on her shoulder, helmet fallen to the ground, oblivious to the curious stares from those surrounding them.

Among the people he saw on the floor was Lord Varys, his complexion now chalk-white as a maester tried to wrap bandages around his middle to keep his insides from falling out before he got further treatment. Tyrion, who had apparently come down from the keep’s roof, kept a somber watch over his friend. _Whatever he thought of or tried to do to Dany, he did not deserve this, _Jon thought as he shuddered inside.

He saw the Hound and Arya going between the bodies of the recently dead, driving their dragonglass weapons into their bodies to prevent the Night King from reanimating them at a moment’s notice. Neither of them took note of Jon’s presence as they kept at their task.

“The Queen is hurt; we need help,” Jon croaked.

Arya looked up, grey eyes widening as Serenei and Maester Wolkan came to Jon and Dany carrying a litter. “What happened?” Arya and Serenei said at the same time.

“She fell off Drogon, but he was able to catch her before it was too late,” Jon said as he laid her on the litter. “I think she has a knock on the head, took a good jolt, but I don’t think she got wounded otherwise.”

“We’ll make sure she is stable,” Serenei said.

“Missandei, could you go with them, stay with the Queen, watch over her?” Jon asked her.

She looked at Grey Worm, who quickly nodded his agreement. “Of course, Your Grace.” With no hesitation, she leaned over and gave the Unsullied general a soft kiss on the lips before she followed Serenei, Maester Wolkan, and Dany to their quarters.

“Can you spare any of your men to keep guard here? They may need help,” Jon said to Grey Worm.

“It will be done,” he said, picking up his helmet and running back to his men after a quick bow to the king.

Jon turned to Arya, who was staring at him. “Bran needs us now,” she told him. “The Night King is coming for him.”

He nodded. “How…?”

“I… just know. Right?”

With a deep breath, he set aside his concerns for Dany for the moment. _This needs to be done. _“Let’s go then.”

Arya turned to the Hound. “Finish these buggers off and then get back to the wall to help out the Lord Commander and the others.” She turned away from him before he had a chance to react and began to follow Jon out of the door.

“Jon? Arya?” Sansa cried out.

Both of them paused at the door and turned back to their sister. Tears were streaming down her face as she gathered Ser Joren to her, but her blue eyes blazed at them. “Kill him,” she growled, and Jon knew she was speaking of the Night King. “Kill him.”

Jon and Arya shared a look, and then turned and nodded in silence at her. With that, they made their way out of the keep.

**Bran**

He focused on the hole in the wall around the godswood, a narrow slit mimicking the steep walls of a canyon. As Kinvara continued to rally the Fiery Hand and Beric remained by his side, he prepared himself for the fight to come.

_I might not swing a sword, but I will fight this one. This is my home,_ he thought as he fingered a small dragonglass dagger he had stashed in his robes.

He saw the Night King, apparently none the worse for wear from his fall, glide through the opening and into the godswood. He was flanked on either side by a White Walker, neither one mounted on spiders. As he entered the godswood and passed through the opening, he stopped and spread his arms wide, palms out.

A swarm of wights and undead animals alike began to flow around them and into the godswood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, so I'm hoping that was properly epic. Please let me know if there's something that needed improvement, because this story has been undergoing quite a bit of revisions since first posting some of these chapters. To paraphrase Hemingway, the first draft is always garbage. (If you haven't reread some of the earlier chapters, you might want to do that now. I think you might notice a distinct improvement in the reading experience.)
> 
> I believe the next chapter should (maybe) be the final chapter of the Battle of the Long Night, although I don't think I can guarantee that, given how this story has been growing on me. I'm expecting that we will finally see The Night King threaten Bran and Jon clashing with the Night King.
> 
> I also have been looking over these past four chapters and have realized that they have been suffering from a distinct shortage of Freefolk and Tormund action. I will be rectifying that in the next chapter.
> 
> As always, leave kudos if you like this and leave comments - I will more than likely respond and say hi, at the very least.


	30. The Long Night Part V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What do we say to the God of Death? Not today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, so here we are, at the finale of the Battle of the Long Night. I truly hope you enjoy.

30.

**Tormund**

The dead now swarmed the northern courtyard and the living rallied to stop them.

With the opening of the North Gate, the surviving wights from the north were joined by many of the undead that had been attacking unsuccessfully from the east and south. From the rear, one of the surviving White Walkers urged the Others on, flanked by four ice spiders that guarded the Night King’s general. They shoved the Unsullied detachment led by Red Flea far enough back that although the former slave warriors continued to fight, spears at the ready and shields interlocked, the wights flooded the courtyard, spreading through the castle.

With the wights no longer attempting to climb the walls to the north, Tormund left a smaller group of mainly teens and younger fighters on the wall while he, Toregg, Munda, Marah, Lord Umber, and the remaining fighters of Houses Umber, Mormont, and Glover ran down the stairs of the northern walls to assist the Unsullied. He also saw that men of House Karstark were also arriving behind them, led by their young lady with the fire-kissed hair.

They arrived just as the Others were beginning to overwhelm and flank the Unsullied on both of their sides. Tormund and their forces filled in on the left flank of the Unsullied, extending to the north wall. Tormund also saw another group of Northern soldiers on the right flank of the Unsullied, some of the Manderly and other houses.

He saw the big woman with them, in full armor, right alongside the Kingkiller with his hand of gold. It looked like she had been crying, but she was all business as her Valyrian blade tore into the wights in front of her. She fought as fiercely as he always pictured she would, with the golden knight beside her flitting from one side of her to the other, parrying a multitude of blows from the wights and either dispatching them with his sword or knocking them aside with his gold hand. _ He’s a pretty good fighter for a one-handed man, _ Tormund had to admit.

“Let’s GO!” Tormund howled above the din, raising both his axes above his head before using them to start cutting through the wights in front of him.

#

**Arya**

They walked through the chaos together, her and Jon.

She was just getting used to people stare at her brother as the King of the North… or Westeros, whichever – so it seemed strange to her that an entire courtyard was teeming with people and they didn’t pay any mind to him. There were those hauling wounded to the infirmary that seemed surprisingly untouched by any of the dead, there were the Unsullied holding steady against a swarm of undead, and Northerners of different houses or no houses fighting their own battles against the Others.

There was one moment when they walked past a young, portly man with a thin beard and wearing maester’s robes underneath his cloak, but with no chains. She recognized him as Samwell, Jon’s friend from the Watch, who was apparently Lord of Highgarden now. He was supervising the piling of corpses into a giant pile next to the infirmary in the sept and that some of the maesters were beginning to set alight. As Samwell saw them pass, he stood up and nodded to his old comrade, hands on twin dragonglass daggers stuck in his belt. There was a flash of worry in Jon’s eyes at the sight of Sam, but he merely returned the nod and moved forward, both former brothers moving on to their business.

_ I was worried about how much I changed over time, whether anything was left of the old me, _ Arya thought. _ But that happened to _ all _ of us, Jon the most. How else could it be, dying and then returning and then finding out your life was a lie… _

She saw her, at the entrance to the godswood, staring at them as they approached. _ The Red Witch. _ She seemed in a daze, although it appeared that she had been unscathed by any fighting. The large ruby in the center of her necklace began to glow ever brighter as they approached. “Shouldn’t you be with your followers, Red Witch?” Jon asked her as he stopped in front of Melisandre with Arya by his side.

“I awaited you, Azor Ahai,” Melisandre said simply. “I knew you would come for the final fight. And I knew I would be needed for that fight, as well.”

“The fuck are you going on about?” Jon said.

“The first Azor Ahai did not temper Lightbringer in his wife’s heart because he had to sacrifice his beloved to ignite his blade,” Melisandre said. “He did so because she was a true believer in the Lord of Light… as am I. I now know my purpose in this fight, my final purpose.”

To Arya’s discomfort, the Red Witch shed her outer cloak and lowered her red dress to the point where it barely, if not at all, covered her breasts. “Strike your blow, Jaehaerys Targaryen,” she said. “Pierce my heart, and Lightbringer will bring the Dawn.”

“About time,” growled Arya, scowling at her.

She then turned to Arya. “Ah, yes, the Wild Wolf. You remember before, I predicted you would close brown eyes, green eyes, and blue eyes. You certainly have.”

“What you did to the girl, what you did to Gendry… you deserve to die.” She was about to grab her brother’s sword and make the strike herself if he didn’t get on with it…

“Ah, yes, you’re the smith’s woman now, aren’t you?” Melisandre said. Arya’s murderous glare stayed on the Red Witch for fear of meeting her brother’s eyes, but her breath stopped in her throat. “If my word means anything to you, Wild Wolf, I think he will live.”

Arya closed her eyes. “Do it, Jon.”

Jon lunged forward. Longclaw ran through the Red Witch, piercing her heart and coming out of the middle of her back. Bright flames, white in intensity, spread along the length of the blade, from the tip to the bottom near the hilt. Then the same colored flames burst forward from her eyes and mouth, sending a white smoke skyward.

Jon pulled the sword from Melisandre, who collapsed to the ground, the ruby on her necklace still glowing bright red as the flames began to envelop her body. They burnt her to a crisp as Arya looked on, not wanting to meet the eyes of her brother.

“Was she right?” she heard from Jon.

She turned to him, fearful of his displeasure or judgement, but only saw a mixture of confusion, wistfulness, and love in his eyes, lit up by the flames of his blade. “He is _ mine _and I am his,” she said, her voice trembling, and it was one of the truest things she had said in many moons. “He saved my life tonight,” she added.

“All right.” He leaned over to her, placing his free hand behind her neck so she looked up at him. “There’s plenty of people we’re both worried about, but we have to put that aside now. I need to end this, and I’m going to need your help to do it. You think you can sneak up on these creatures as easy as you do me?”

She found the smallest of smiles forming on her face. “Better than you can with that bloody sword.”

#

**Bran**

The ends of the Fiery Hand’s phalanx had already bent around to form a nearly complete circle around him, Ser Beric, and the heart tree. Wights swarmed through the hot spring near the tree and ended up impaling themselves on the flaming spearheads of the Volantian temple guards. Grey Worm had been right; they fought with a skill and intensity not common among men. However, even they were getting overwhelmed by the wights, who were climbing over the warriors in the front line and picking their way through the spears raised above the heads of the line behind the front to keep them at bay. Ser Beric was making short work of the wights that were sneaking through the lines with his flaming sword, but they were as relentless as they were without emotions.

He saw the Night King get ever closer to the Fiery Hand’s lines, flanked by two White Walkers. Bran realized that he’d have to try to reach out with his abilities to stop them. He reached out with his mind – there was only the two White Walkers with the Night King and one more on the northern wall – he could feel the effort the Night King was making to keep all the wights animated. _ If I can increase his burden… that might be enough. _

The Night King was too great of a mind, too much thought churning around, but Bran reached out to one of the White Walkers. It hurt as he entered his mind, an ancient mind of one long dead, but he had to do it. _ I must defend my home _, he thought.

One of the White Walkers’ eyes flashed pure white, and he grabbed his spear and struck out at the other White Walker next to him. The other one had his own spear and struck out at the White Walker that Bran controlled, but it was not enough to protect him.

Both the White Walkers collapsed into ice shards as their spears pierced their hearts. The Night King’s brow furrowed as he briefly seemed to undergo some strain. He paused in his walk toward the lines, momentarily staggered. Bran could sense he was expending a greater amount of mental energy, willpower, whatever it might be called, as he strained to keep the remaining wights viable with his own essence.

With the full weight of what was now multiple hundreds of wights pressing against their lines, the lines of the Fiery Hand temporarily gave way in the center, opening a pathway just wide enough to allow the Night King to walk through them and toward Bran under the heart tree. The members of the Hand, who had Kinvara exhorting them to continue to fight the others from her position on the far right of the line, hardly noticed the intrusion, as they were still busy keeping the more massive crowd of wights in front of them at bay. They had already had some of the wights escape to their rear, but since they had not been attacked by them from behind, they were not foremost on the minds of the Volantian fighters.

As the Night King came within about 30 or so yards from Bran, he caught the eye of Ser Beric, just in front of and to the left of Bran. The knight was now surrounded by the flaming corpses of wights he’d slain. While the Night King picked up his pace as he got closer to Bran, the old knight turned to face the Raven one last time. “My Lord,” he said with a single nod, then leaped over the burning line of corpses toward the Night King.

Beric appeared to realize that his regular steel sword, flaming or not, would not be able to stand up against a clash against the Night King’s enchanted ice spear. So, he instead kept away from the spear, lunging in underneath the undead king’s sweeping strikes to slash at his legs. The Night King grimaced briefly when one strike slashed through his right thigh, but he kept pursuing the one-eyed knight, taking his eyes temporarily off the Three-Eyed-Raven.

From what Bran could see, the Night King was wearing a cuirass made of some unknown material – Valyrian steel? Enchanted ice? – but he was not sure. What he did see was Beric, darting in and moving out from the Night King’s reach with the speed and agility of a far younger man that evening, had noticed the straps holding the cuirass together on the Night King. Suddenly pulling a dragonglass one-handed hatchet from his belt in his left hand, keeping the flaming sword in his right, he ducked under and around another spear thrust and hacked at one of the straps with that hatchet.

The strap cut cleanly in two.

Beric avoided a second thrust by rolling on the ground to his right and leaping up, seemingly hyper-charged with the fires of the Lord of Light, and continued his back and forth with the Night King. The wights that had gone through now formed a smaller arc around the Night King, Beric, and Bran, with each end anchored on either side of the heart tree. There was no escape for either Beric or Bran.

They dueled with each other for the next couple minutes, Beric managing to cleave the other lower strap of the Night King’s armor in two, now leaving it hanging by two straps on the shoulders. But the Night King began to increase the speed of his strikes and Beric began to tire.

Realizing his strength was waning, the knight made a deep, surprise lunge and aimed his flaming sword up underneath the loose armor and into the Night King’s gut. The blade penetrated, but then the Night King brought his enchanted spear thrusting into a gap in his armor, right between his neck and collarbone. Beric sank to the ground, single eye opened wide to the skies, as Death took its final victory from Ser Beric Dondarrion.

The Night King looked down at Bran in his chair after yanking the spear out of Beric with a wet squelch. He took a step forward when he saw a flash of flame to his left.

Bran saw Kinvara back away from touching one of the wights on the far left, with what appeared to be tiny fireballs boiling away from her fingertips. The fire rushed along the line of tightly packed wights, enveloping them and turning them into a shrieking, burning mob. Eventually, they fell where they stood, still burning brightly.

The Night King looked behind him in both directions. Bran realized that while the Night King could certainly walk through the flames, as he had done before north Beyond the Wall, the other wights would not find it very easy to pick their way through the flames to assist the Night King. The Night King now turned his attention to Bran and talked toward him.

Bran reached out with his mind, with as much strength as he had, to try and enter the Night King’s mind, to subdue him somehow. As he reached inside his head, probing, he had the impression of something captured, something locked away from the rest of the world…

_ It was a demon inside the Night King’s mind, a demon created from the immense power of the Children of the Forest, the same level of power that had shattered the Arm of Dorne and turned the Neck into wetlands. The Children had _ created _ the demon parasite with that magic, a greater power than they had ever used before, and their anger at humanity gave it great power and focus. It was so powerful, in fact, that it had drained the Children of some of the power they once had. It had both fed on the essence of the man it inhabited and had made itself into a semblance of a being, but just an imitation of a man, an imitation without a past, without a soul. _

_ In his view as the Three-Eyed-Raven, he saw the demon guarding what seemed to be a black globe, the size of a wheelhouse, inside the mind of the Night King. He was guarding it, but he also seemed distracted. His focus was on infusing the remaining Others with his power so they could continue their assault on the living. _

_ With a massive shove of power, Bran cast the demon into the distance, into the void, and then moved toward the black globe. Reaching inside it, he pulled until there was what seemed to be a rip to its exterior. With his power casting light inside the globe, Bran peered inside. _

_ The being inside was shaped something like a man but otherwise resembled it not at all as he cowered in a far space inside the globe. Clawlike fingers either covered unseeing eyes or attempted to ward away the light. He was unclothed, his skin a claylike grey that had not seen the sun in millennia. His only communication was a string of moans and shrieks. _

_ This is the First Man, the one I saw turned into the Night King _ _, Bran thought to himself. “Who are you?” he yelled at the man. “Come here! I want to help.” _

_ But the man turned away, shaking his head. “I don’t know!” he howled. “I don’t KNOW!” _

_ The horror of what Bran faced burned in his brain, a deeper horror than the deaths of his parents, Jojen, Summer, and facing the Night King for the first time. _ _ He’s been in here all this time, for thousands and thousands of years. Locked away from his home, kept away from his loved ones in this life and the next, forgetting who he was… Gods… _

_ He felt fingers of ice close around the back of his neck, and they pulled him out of the sphere, which went black once again and faded into the distance. He was hurled into the void… the demon… _

Bran reeled back in his wheelchair, once again under the heart tree. His hand went to his nose and the rest of his face. Blood seeped from both his nostrils and his ears, and his head reeled if he’d been spun in circles. The Night King loomed over him, in control, the two of them alone in the circle of burning dead men and women.

He fumbled inside his robes and found the dragonglass dagger. “I’m not making it easy for you to take me,” Bran grunted. As the Night King reached down to grab him, Bran leaned forward and stabbed him in the pelvis.

The Night King froze for a moment. Bran looked up, wondering if it had… but only found the apparition before him making the slightest of grimaces as he yanked the dagger from his groin and threw it off to the side. The Night King back-handed Bran across the face, and then grabbed Bran by the robe, lifting him out of his wheelchair and over his head.

Rearing back, he threw Bran at the heart tree. Tumbling, Bran slammed into trunk spine-first with a sickening _ crack, _ the back of his head striking the tree as well. He slid down to the ground, his head reeling, as the Night King stood over him, his spear ready to thrust down.

_ Jon, Sansa, Arya, I love you, _ Bran thought. _ Meera… I’m sorry… _

As the ice spear came down, a flaming streak knocked it off to the side and slashed at the Night King, driving him back. His brother stood above him, wielding a sword that appeared to be Longclaw enveloped in a white, pulsing flame. “Bran? Are you all right?”

Bran barely was able to nod as Jon turned toward the Night King and charged at him. _ You bring the dawn, Jon. You bring the dawn. _He sank into darkness then.

#

**Tormund**

While the Unsullied attacked the undead with steady, unemotional, metronomic consistency, their spear thrusts reducing the wights in front of them bit by bit, the Freefolk were the complete opposite, throwing themselves screaming at their opponents with uncheckable rage. The old were the first to dive into the teeming mass of wights, stabbing and slashing with no thought of their own safety. In other winters where there was no fighting to be done, it would be these men who would go on hunting trips deep into the northern woods, never to return to their homes, to ensure that the young had enough to eat and that they could continue on until the start of spring. However, tonight the young were right beside them.

The fighting was thick around Tormund. The wights grasped at him, but his axes were too swift to be denied, and a pile of them began to form around his feet. He saw the White Walker at the rear of the horde, the ice spiders forming a protective guard around him. _ Killing him would be good, but how to wade through the horde unscathed and engage him…? _

There was a familiar voice that screamed to his left. Marah had reached out with her spear and dispatched another of the wights, but four of them had grabbed her shield and pulled her to the ground, dragging her toward them.

“MARAH!” Munda screamed, running toward her sister as another wight raised a bronze sword to cut her down before she could reach her destination. Before he could do that, however, Lord Ned Umber managed to drive his dragonglass spear directly through the creature’s right temple, causing him to crumble to the ground.

Munda prepared to throw herself, unthinking, into the swarm of wights tearing at her sister, but she was tackled from behind by Ned, who somehow managed to pull her away from the fight even though the Freefolk girl was as tall as he was.

“MARAH!” bellowed Tormund as he tried to reach his eldest daughter, all thoughts of his own safety gone.

Marah looked up at her father as one of the wights bit into her neck, severing her carotid artery. “Father?” she said before the other wights pulled her, shrieking, into the mass of their fellow Others.

Tormund let loose an incoherent bellow as he threw himself at the wights who were between him and Marah. Two slash wounds to his right side and another two to his left arm went all but unnoticed as he attempted to take out his pain and rage on the unfeeling dead. He was getting closer to where he thought Marah was…

He heard an unearthly shriek behind him. Whipping around, he saw a wight with a massive rusted iron battle axe raised high collapsing directly behind him, a dragonglass spear buried in the back of its neck.

It was a woman who pulled the spear out of the wight’s neck, a Freefolk spearwife. She was around Toregg’s age and Marah’s size, but unfamiliar to his sight. She was wearing a brown woolen cloak with hood to keep her warm, and what appeared to be a chain mail armored shirt made for a much larger man that she was wearing essentially as an armored dress. Black-haired and pale of skin, her dark brown eyes bored into his back.

“Fucking _ cunt_, watch your back,” she growled at him as if she knew him.

He had no idea who she was, but he saw Toregg come up to her side and gestured at the woman as to keep her quiet. “Where’s Marah?” his voice boomed.

“Over there…” he pointed to the teeming horde in front of them, and then a man burst out of the pack dragging a red-haired woman with him… Tormund thought for one desperate moment that it was Marah, but it was in fact Alys Karstark, grimacing and holding a badly slashed right thigh.

The man dragging her back to the Freefolk lines _ was _ familiar to Tormund. A lean man in his early twenties of average height, he had grey eyes, sharp, high cheekbones but a squared nose, and chestnut hair. He wore a leather tunic armored with bronze scales and his face was covered with intricate patterns sketched in blue woad dye. _ Sigorn, _ Tormund realized. Son of the late Styr, he had inherited his position as Magnar, or lord, of the Thenns from him.

Lady Karstark looked up at the blue-painted apparition with naked fear, but the man calmly laid his finger over her lips to quiet any outburst. “You must not fear me,” he said in a rasping, halting voice in the Common Tongue, he being more familiar with the Old Tongue still spoken by his people.

“How the fuck are we supposed to finish off these bastards?” Toregg said, coming to his side. “They just keep coming.”

“More than a few of them were created by that ice bastard out there,” Tormund said, reluctantly setting aside his feelings regarding Marah and pointing with his axe toward the White Walker in the rear. “We kill him, I’m betting most of these undead cunts will fall.”

“So how do we reach him?” Toregg yelled. “He’s way the fuck behind all of the other dead cunts, so we’ll get cut up trying to kill him off. Wish we’d brought some dragonglass arrows with us… _ fucking Gods.” _Toregg pointed to the North Gate.

Tormund saw a being, about two and ten feet tall, crawl through the gate. It was a giant, covered in mammoth hides, with what appeared to be auburn hair and beard, and body hair of the same color apparently covering most of his body. Standing up, he wielded what appeared to be a massive tree trunk with a boulder fastened to one end, essentially serving as a huge stone axe. As the wights began to swarm around his shoeless, splayed feet and massive tree-trunk legs, the White Walker turned to watch the giant start crushing wights with his axe, facing away from the Freefolk.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Tormund said, shaking his head. _ This must not stand. _ With the Night King now about 30 yards away from him, he took three steps back, nearly stepping on the boot of the woman with the chain mail coat. Rearing back, he took three steps forward and sent one of his axes flying from his right hand.

Flying end over end, the axe traveled 30 yards before connecting with the back of the White Walker’s head. The ice being shattered into thousands of ice shards, and at least half of the wights in the north Winterfell courtyard collapsed the moment that the White Walker fell. The giant continued to pound the remaining wights into black goo with its feet and improvised stone axe.

Tormund bellowed in triumph, a grin from ear to ear as he shook his fist above his head. “Fucking show-off,” Toregg grumbled.

Tormund saw Sigorn stand up from where he was kneeling next to Lady Karstark and then nodded in the giant’s direction as he continued to finish off the few surviving wights. Sigorn began to sing something in a raspy but clear voice in the Old Tongue, the language known to the giants.

Tormund looked around at the living fighters and at the lone giant in front of them. “Sing,” he said to those around him.

“Sing, in the Old Tongue,” Tormund called out, although when he began to sing along, he did so in the Common Tongue so that the other southreners around, such as Alys, could follow along with the serenade they gave to the massive giant…

_ “Oooooh, I am the last of the giants, _

_ my people are gone from the earth. _

_ The last of the great mountain giants, _

_ who ruled all the world at my birth…” _

#

**Jon**

_ There’s not much time, _he thought as he blocked the Night King’s blow.

He was there alone in the blazing near-circle of dead wights around the heart tree, facing the leader of the Others in single combat. The Night King kept his distance from the flaming Longclaw – _ or was it Lightbringer now? _– but an attempt to hack through what appeared to be an enchanted piece of chest armor came to nothing.

What remained of the Fiery Hand now reformed just outside that circle, the flames at their backs, as they continued to hold against the wights straining to pass through their defenses and come to the aid of their undead king. Soon it would no longer be a duel, but walking through a swarm of undead unafraid of anything. There was no way that this could be an extended fight.

_ Even Father couldn’t defeat the Sword of the Morning by himself, _ he reasoned as he continued to lunge periodically at the Night King, keeping him off-balance and not secure on his feet. _ I’ll need an edge… _

Batting aside two of the Night King’s own lunges with his spear at his own midsection, Jon saw the smallest glint of metal amid the red weirwood leaves and branches above. _ Time for our trick. _

With two sweeping right and left-hand swings, Jon herded the Night King away from the still form of Bran and underneath one of the outer branches a few steps away from the burning wights. Some of the wight’s comrades were trying to build undead causeways over the circle with their own bodies, but so far, they had no luck. The Night King readied himself for another lunge at Jon.

Just then, Arya dropped silently from the weirwood tree and landed on the Night King’s back, her arm around his neck. With two swipes of Catspaw, she cut the remaining two straps keeping the enchanted armor on, letting it fall to the ground in two pieces, with only a grey tunic remaining underneath. She then reared back and stabbed him with the dagger in the back of his neck.

The leader of the Others let out such a piercing shriek Jon had to force himself not to cover his ears. Grasping behind him with his right hand while his left kept hold of his spear, the Night King managed to find and grasp hold of the front of Arya’s jacket. He flung her over his head and down to the ground with a massive _ thud, _ then reached back behind him again and tossed the Valyrian dagger off to the side.

Arya scrambled to her feet, drawing her two short spears from their place on her back, but two well-aimed kicks to the head from the Night King left her sprawling on the ground, spears dropped, with a split upper lip, her right eye blackened, and a small cut on the right side of her forehead. Both hands on his spear, the Night King prepared to strike at the small irritant.

It was then that the Night King’s disadvantages in this situation were apparent. In the millennia since the first War of the Dawn, the Night King had gone into battle as more of a general than a great warrior. He’d always been surrounded by his White Walker lieutenants or wight foot soldiers – _ at worst, he fought the Last Hero in single combat, _ Jon thought. _ He’s always had an advantage. _

However, things had changed. He was not a general leading a relentless assault on the living, but a warrior outnumbered two to one against those armed with weapons that had a chance of harming him.

If he thought of such things, perhaps he did so for the first time when the Night King saw a flash of flame arc downward toward him before he could strike Arya. He saw the spear fall to the ground, still in the grasp of his now disembodied hands. He looked down to see black blood oozing from the stumps he held out in front of him.

Before he had a chance to react, Jon lunged forward with a cry and pierced the Night King through the center of his chest with the burning Longclaw. With the Night King now shrieking wordlessly at this new damage to himself, Jon drove forward, using one of his feet to trip up the Night King and send him to the ground.

“JON!” Arya scrambled to find a weapon. “Open up his chest!”

He stabbed the Night King several times in a line down the front of his chest, the sickening _ cracks _ of the ribs breaking audible even over the din of the now completely crazed wights wriggling through the remaining Fiery Hand warriors and attempting to rescue their leader. Black blood spattered Jon and the surrounding snow as he used Longclaw to cut wider into the Others’ leader.

Despite the grievous wounds, there was no sign that the Night King was in any way incapacitated except for his lack of hands. He was pummeling Jon’s head with his stumps until Arya pinned the Night King’s head back onto the ground, first with a hand and then with Catspaw driving through the demon’s left eye. “Get _ on _ with it,” she hollered, “they’re almost on top of us.” Now soaked in black blood once more, Arya used one of her short spears to point at a group of six wights that were trying to crawl over each other to avoid the flames.

Trying to avoid the flames of his own burning sword now thrust into another part of the Night King’s chest, Jon reached in with both hands and ripped open the rib cage with another series of cracks, black ooze now covering his face.

“Come on, Jon,” Arya yelled, kicking one wight away with her boot and stabbing another through the eye with her spear. “Finish him.”

He reached deep into the Night King’s chest, above where his heart should have been. Jon felt his gloved fingers close around something that had to be the dragonglass dagger. “You die today by Fire and Blood,” Jon whispered to him and ripped the dragonglass from the Night King’s chest with a loud _ squelch_.

The dragonglass flew behind him as Jon and Arya covered their ears to protect them from a piercing shriek from the Night King. A glowing green energy formed around him and Bran alike, pulsing brightly at the rate of a regular heartbeat. As the scream died down, the glow faded from both the Night King and his brother. Jon scrambled to the man’s head and looked down. _ The magic of the Children? _Jon wondered. In addition, the flames emanating from Longclaw and the spearpoints of the Fiery Hand now died out.

At once, the figure looked both more and less human than he had before. He no longer had the spikes on top of his head that made him appear to wear a crown. His skin tone was now pale rather than ice blue, as if he’d spent a long time in some keep’s dungeon, but it appeared that he was not recently alive, but drained of fluids and mummified some time ago. With that mummification, and the excess of black blood across his face, he could not begin to guess whether the man might be some ancient Stark ancestor, perhaps someone of Valyrian descent, although what hair the man did have on his head was short and brown. _ Who were you? Are you finally at peace, now? _

“Azor Ahai, you have brought the Dawn to the race of man,” Kinvara said as she approached Jon and the corpse of the Night King, with the smile that could only come from someone secure in their righteousness. “You are truly The Prince That Was Promised.”

Of the 300 members of the Fiery Hand that had begun the battle, only one in ten of them were still standing at the end of it. All that were still alive now kneeled down in front of Jon and bowed to him. “Azor Ahai, Bringer of the Dawn to man.”

They now began chanting in High Valyrian, and he could not yet recognize it all despite his wife’s instructions. However, he knew what the intent of the chants and the actions were. _ They think to make me a god on this world. I’ve barely gotten used to the fact that I’m to be king, and now this… I cannot accept it… I am a man, not a prophecy… _

“Jon.”

He turned around. The enchanted armor and ice spear were no longer anywhere to be found, but the Night King’s now human-appearing hands still sat on the ground. Arya was there, cradling Bran’s head in her arms. “Bran needs help,” she said in a soft voice.

Ignoring the Volantians, Jon now hurried over to his siblings, taking a moment to pick up the dragonglass shard that had been in the Night King’s chest and tucking it into his own armor. _ Best not to let something like that sit around. _Likely it could be melted down in a forge, to avoid anyone ever trying to revive such a creature like that again.

“He’s not waking up,” Arya said.

Jon checked to confirm that he was still breathing. He was still bleeding from his nose and his ears, and there was another cut on the back of his head from hitting the tree. He felt along Bran’s back, trying to see if he had broken anything there, but he could not feel anything out of order. “What happened to him?” Arya asked.

“Thrown into the tree by the Night King,” Jon responded. “Gods know what happened inside his head. Here.”

He got up and put Bran’s wheelchair back upright. “Now, let’s do this carefully.” Cradling his brother, Jon lifted him gently into the chair, allowing his head to loll back against Bran’s own right shoulder. Throwing the furs on top of him, Jon took a final look at the figure that had been the Night King. “I wonder who he was.”

“You’ll have to ask Bran if he got any ideas about that,” Arya said. “That one down there isn’t in a talking mood.” She pointed to the followers of the Red God. “What are they going on about?”

“Like the Red Witch said, they think I’m the answer to one of their prophecies, some living god,” Jon sighed. “Madness.”

“That can’t be right,” Arya said. “You were too quiet of a boy growing up. Aren’t gods supposed to be loud cunts so their followers know who they are?”

Jon smiled. “Something like that.” He kissed his sister on the top of her head, not paying attention to the grime and muck all over her. “You did Lord and Lady Stark proud tonight, Arya,” he said. “I don’t think I would have been able to stop him in time if it wasn’t for your help.”

She nodded, trying not to show her emotions, but she could not help but beam at her brother’s compliment. “Speaking of help, Bran needs it. Let’s get him to the keep.”

The chants and prayers honoring Azor Ahai echoed throughout the godswood as Jon and Arya wheeled their brother to safety and into a silent courtyard as the red and purple streaks of the sun started to color the sky above.

#

**Missandei**

“Is there anything that I can do for her?” she asked as the ice-blond healer from Lys flitted around the queen from one side to the other, checking this body part or another one, and constantly seeking to see if she was conscious.

“No, thank you for your offer,” Serenei said. “You just being here for your… mistress, friend, whichever… that’s what’s important.”

She had undressed Daenerys from her clothes the minute she carried her into Jon’s sleeping chambers. The queen was now, with the additional help of Missandei, wearing a simple linen sleeping shift, which allowed Serenei to more easily examine her patient. She made sure there would be plenty of blankets and furs for when her work would be done and Daenerys given time to rest.

Missandei stared at the queen’s face and saw an exhausted expression on her unconscious face and closed eyes. “What do you think is wrong?” she asked.

“Tough to say,” she replied, shaking her head, and laying gentle fingertips on the queen’s forehead. “There is no sign of a skull fracture or any other bone break, but she certainly has a concussion, given her vomiting. It almost seems like she is out of energy, maybe not having food for a time has worn her down…”

“I doubt that,” Missandei said, shaking her head. “She ate well for our meals yesterday – perhaps with an even heartier appetite than she normally has. Have you noticed any other injury?”

“Not really,” Serenei said. She lifted the hem of Daenerys’ shift and glanced at her lower body. “There are no obvious signs of internal bleeding, either from the head or her body.” She began to reach underneath the shift, first searching for injuries to her feet or legs.

Missandei then realized that the din of battle that had been constantly banging on since the Others had arrived outside Winterfell had died out. The only clear sound she could hear was some faint chants of “Azor Ahai” in the distance. “What’s going on?”

She saw Serenei now trying to listen as well. “Hmm, well, if you want my guess, Missandei, I’m going to say that her husband the King just won his battle with the dead. In my opinion,” she concluded, returning to examine the queen’s lower torso.

“Really? That’s wonderful news, thank the Gods,” Missandei breathed.

“Yes, wonderful…” Serenei’s voice trailed off as her hands froze on top of Daenerys’ abdomen. For a moment, she stayed still, but then her fingers traced lower onto her belly, moving in a horizontal line a few inches underneath the queen’s belly button. She lifted the hem of Daenerys’ shift again, examining her chest and then back to her lower belly. “Can you get a message to the King?” Serenei said.

“Of course,” a now confused Missandei replied as she stood up.

“Tell him, as soon as he has a moment, that he should come and speak to me,” Serenei said in a calm, even voice. “If you could let him know now, Missandei… I’ll explain everything after he gets here.” Serenei did not take her attention away from her examination of the queen as Missandei took her leave.

#

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are at the climax of this battle. It was a long slog, and I’m not convinced it was the perfect way to wrap up this battle, but it felt true to how I’ve been telling this story. Just a few things to keep in mind:
> 
> 1\. There have been many great GOT/ASOIAF stories that I have read that give an involved and detailed backstory to the Night King and the Others. To avoid trying to closely repeat those great stories and also following Miles Davis’ edict that it’s the notes you don’t play that are the most important, I have decided (and you have probably sensed) that I am going in the opposite direction. I also think that in the world of GRRM, where prophecies often are misinterpreted or turn out to be totally false, it makes sense that there are some things that don’t have a clear or easy explanation. We’ll get a little more detail later in the story, but, as in real life, many things will remain mysteries.
> 
> 2\. You might be thinking that there’s a lot of threads that are left undone by the end of this chapter, and you’d be right. The next chapter is going to detail the 24 hours after the Night King’s death at Winterfell and we’re going to get more than a few things sorted. Since
> 
> [MINOR SPOILER]
> 
> the gang and the Dragon Army will be chilling out and recovering at Winterfell for the next month in the story, we’ll be spending at least the next four chapters there before they are back on the march.  
(And part of that will be Jon realizing he was literally the last one in his family to figure out that Arya was with Gendry lol.)
> 
> 3\. This has been a great project to keep my attention at a time when everyone is dealing with the fallout from COVID-19. As for my situation in Iowa, we are undergoing modest restrictions as the patient counts continue to climb. Other than my family, I tend to be a bit hermetic, so I’ve been adapting as best I can. I’m teaching and am off work for at least four weeks, but at least I have a guaranteed check which is more than what I can say for many of my fellow citizens. This project, and the many others I have been reading on AO3, have been an inspiration and comfort to me.
> 
> So, let me know you’re still out there, right? Tell me what you liked, tell me what you would have done differently, and I’ll respond back. I love the conversations I’ve been having in these comment sections.
> 
> As the pandemic continues, I plan to get more writing done. I’m only half a week in regarding some of these restrictions, and to be honest, Matthew McC would call what I’ve written rookie numbers. Time to pump them up.


	31. The Day After Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The living recover from The Long Night. A new family comes into being.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it appears that I'm the type of person who wants to get out new chapters and not spend too much time on a massive chapter when I can split it into two chapters. So, this is basically the first half of the day after the Battle of the Long Night. Part II, the second half of that day, will be the next chapter.

31.

**Arya**

It wasn’t until they were trying to wheel Bran back to the Great Keep that she noticed the bodies covering the ground.

She and Jon made it only two yards into the courtyard immediately outside the godswood before the bodies stopped them in their tracks. “Wait,” Jon said, getting Arya to halt pushing Bran along. He came around and gently gathered his brother in his arms, taking special care not to jostle his spine more than necessary.

The courtyard was a grassland where the grass was teeming, wounded humanity. If not dead, the men and women writhing on the ground were screaming for their mothers or their sweethearts before either passing out or breathing their last breath. So much black and red blood covered the living, dead, and long-dead that most could not be reliably distinguished.

As she walked alongside Jon, there were two faces on the ground that she did recognize. They were two girls, Alys Harrow and Jane Ryman, two smallfolk girls from somewhere in the Barrowlands with long brown hair and dark eyes. If they were five and ten it would be a stretch. They had been among some of Arya’s prize pupils among the girls she’d trained over the past few weeks, and had both shown skill with a bow and spear. Now they lay in the courtyard covered in mud and blood, eyes staring sightlessly at the gradually brightening sky, dotted with snowflakes, and their mouths wide open.

_It’s my fault – they wanted to be like me, _she thought, barely keeping from throwing up, still staring at them as she walked past. _Now they’re just more meat for the funeral pyres – like Father, Mother, Robb… all the rest…_

Her vision blurred and she lost track of where she was or what she was doing. The next thing that she saw was a hallway in the Great Keep. She was slumped down on the floor and her sister was hugging her, rubbing her shoulders and trying to get her attention. “Arya? Sweetling, what’s the matter?”

She looked up at Sansa. “They’re all dead,” she whispered, staring far past her sister and into the distance. “They’re all dead, and I couldn’t save them, like I couldn’t save Poppa or Mother, or Robb…”

“Listen to me,” Sansa whispered fiercely, grabbing her sister’s chin and forcing her to look into her eyes. “You _did not _fail this family, do you understand? Bran would not be alive now if not for you and Jon.” Out of the corner of her eye, Arya saw Jon exit a room that she recognized as Bran’s. “You and Jon made sure _all_ of us survived this night. _I’m _still here, Jon and Bran are still here, Daenerys is here… your Gendry is here,” she said, whispering the last few words as Jon came to stand next to them. “Gods help me, but we’re all going to need your help to finish the rest of this business. Can I count on you?” she finished, grabbing Arya by the back of her head for emphasis.

Slowly, her mind began to clear from all the horror and ghosts that had temporarily frozen it. She nodded. “Aye, you can,” she whispered to her sister.

“Is she okay?” Jon said to Sansa as he leaned over both his sisters.

“She’ll be fine,” Sansa said as she helped Arya stand up. “She needs to get cleaned up… honestly, I need to get cleaned up as well. We’ll see you in a while… plenty to get done now.”

“That’s the truth,” Jon said as he embraced Sansa and Arya in turn.

“I’ll be fine,” Arya said, nodding.

Sansa led her down the hallway. “Come on, let’s get you to the hot baths below. We’ll see what needs patching up.”

Arya simply nodded. As a little girl, she’d always hated having people like her mother or sister do things for her. However, a long night of fighting the Others put her in a different mood. _A bath sounds glorious right now_, she admitted to herself.

**Jon**

“Are they going to be all right?” he heard someone grunt as he watched his sisters disappear down the hall.

Jon turned around to see the Hound before him, appearing… _concerned?_ Next to him was a hobbling Edd, a massive bandage wrapped around his right thigh. “Yes, they should be fine,” Jon replied, earning a satisfied grunt from the scarred warrior. He turned to Edd. “How many of the boys are still around?”

“Maybe seventy either dead or wounded,” the Lord Commander said, nodding. ”We were more heavily engaged than some of the others. Tarly make it?”

Jon nodded. “He’s organizing the collection of the bodies, both ours and of the Others. They’re not coming back, but we’re going to need a pretty big pyre to take care of all them. Edd… do you think you and the boys can get back on the walls, keep an eye out for anyone? I know you don’t have much, but… the Others are gone and it’s not likely Cersei’s going to make it all the way up here with the forces she has. I just need you to keep an eye on things.”

Edd nodded. “By the way, we came to let you know… you have some visitors out past the North Gate,” he said. “Basically… more of the type of beings our wet nurses and Grandnan’s used to use as fairy tales.”

“All right, then,” Jon said, doing his best to clean his face of the blood and gunk on it with his gloves before setting out.

#

**Tormund**

He sat there, squatting on an empty cask, as he stared down at the body of his daughter on the ground.

Tormund and Toregg had found Marah’s body at the bottom of a pile of inert wights, likely the same ones that had dragged her to her death. With all the blood and muck, they could just barely tell that she was freshly dead as opposed to the wights who had been much longer dead. They’d dragged her to where the Freefolk had gathered to rest and bind their wounds, between the North Gate and one of the openings to the godswood.

They at least managed to use Marah’s cloak to cover her face as she laid on the ground. Tormund sat silently next to her body. Toregg sat across from Tormund, equally silent, joined by the mysterious scowling woman that had helped him during the battle.

Munda sat to Tormund’s left, softly sobbing and covering her face against the right shoulder of Ned Umber. The teenaged Lord of Last Hearth had a thousand-yard stare, grasping a spear broken in half in one hand and wordlessly had his arm around Munda.

To Tormund’s right, Sigorn was finishing binding the leg wound of Lady Alys, then stitching together the tear in her skirt for good measure. “We learn to do much in our lands,” was how he explained it. Some of the House Karstark bannermen had gathered nearby their lady and eyed the painted Thenn warily, but she gestured to them to be calm.

“Karstark,” Sigorn said, finishing tying off her bindings. “Are you… family to the Starks, here?”

She brushed her red hair out of her blue eyes and considered the question. “Not… close.” Alys held her hands together, then moved them apart. “Distant family, see?” Sigorn nodded.

“These are not your lands, then.”

She nodded. “My fa… I have a keep named Karhold, east of here. Not sure what shape it’s in now, but it’s mine.”

“I see.”

Toregg leaned over and fixed his eyes on Munda. “Come on, girl, get a hold of things,” he said softly but with firmness.

Ned snapped out of his stupor and turned toward Toregg. “What are you on about?” he said, pointing to Munda. “That’s her sister on the ground.”

“You think she’s the first brother or sister we’ve ever lost?” Toregg said wistfully.”We lost one brother and sister before they turned one year old. There’s a lot of those; that’s why Freefolk don’t bother to name babies until then. I had a brother, Maran, who died when he was five. She’s lived the longest of any of us except me,” he concluded, pointing at Marah’s corpse. “What the fuck do you know about losing someone?”

“All of my family is dead.” Ned said, eyes burrowing in on the man twice his size and ten years older and absentmindedly stabbing at the ground with his spear head. “I’m the last of House Umber in this world. I think I know _something_ about grief and loss.”

Toregg glared at Ned for a moment, then acknowledged his point with a begrudging nod. Munda, who had noticed the exchange, settled down from crying but kept leaning on Ned’s shoulder.

Toregg turned his attention to his father, who was now staring farther across the courtyard, toward where Brienne and Jaime were now helping others to arrange and collect the bodies of the dead. “You still thinking of chasing after that big woman?” he snorted in exasperation.

Tormund let out a self-depreciating chuckle and shook his head. “I’ll admit I can be slow, but once I get a message, I get it,” he said. “She’s made it clear she’s got no interest. More interested in the Kingkiller, I think. What could have been,” he sighed. “It appears you’ve been luckier than me.” He stared at the lean, hard-faced woman by his son’s side. “You’re my son’s woman?”

She nodded as she stared at him with nut-brown eyes boring in on him, taking his measure. “I’m Tanna,” she said. “My father and brother used to fish on the Frozen Shore.”

“How the fuck do they manage that with all the ice around? I always wondered,” Tormund asked.

“They use axes to carve holes in the ice. They catch plenty of sharks, seals that way,” she replied. “Anyway, Toregg came to our camp and told us of the Others coming, that we had to get south of the Wall. Father and the others didn’t believe him, thought it was some fairy tales. So, he stole me from Father. We saw the Others swarming the camp from far away, but there were too many of them for us to fight. I don’t know what happened to my family.” She hung her head for a second. “I’ve been with Toregg ever since. He’s a decent man – strong, knows how to get things done, thinks quite a lot of himself, but he assured me that his father was even worse.” She looked at Tormund with a smirk. “I think he has a point, King Beyond the Wall or not.”

Tormund thought for a moment, chin cupped in his hand. “Wait a minute, why didn’t you say something last night…?”

“Because it was the same thing like it’s always been since I was a child,” Toregg said, exasperated as he threw up his hands. “You talk so bloody much that no one else gets a word in with you.”

“He has a point,” Tanna said.

“Heh. Well, I still thank you for sympathizing with me enough to watch my back last night,” Tormund said with a mock bow from where he sat.

“I didn’t do that for your benefit,” Tanna said. “Like I said, I don’t know if my father’s alive – probably not. Anyway,” she added, standing up and throwing her cloak over her shoulders, “I thought my child should at least know one of his grandfathers.”

He took a closer look at his son’s woman. Underneath the mail shirt that she wore, there was a considerable bump sticking out from her lower belly, looking somewhat out of place on her otherwise wiry build.

“I visited one of the healers once I got here,” Tanna said. “They said I’m likely to have it in three moons time.”

Tormund nodded, eyebrow raised. “Congratulations,” he said. “Welcome to the family.” He meant it – it was a blessing for him, and the Old Gods knew the Freefolk could use more babies to replace those who had been killed off by the cold and the Others over the past few years. _I’m going to be a grandfather,_ he thought. _I didn’t think I would live _this_ long._

“Look, we’re not taking her south with us when King Crow decides to knock off that queen… which one, the one that used to fuck her brother?” Toregg said, his voice hesitant. “I appreciate a fighting woman, but I want her to be safe.”

Tanna’s gaze softened as she looked up at Toregg, holding him by the elbow and standing next to him. “That’s sweet.”

“I… I don’t want you hurt, that’s all,” Toregg concluded, turning back to his father. “Right?”

Tormund waved at them. “We’re not going to take everyone south with King Crow,” he reassured them. “The women like Tanna, the children… they’ll stay here, keep an eye on things. We’ll need to help him, though. Not only wouldn’t we be here if not for him, but the Lion Queen down south would wipe us out if she had the chance. No, we’ll have to see this through to the end.”

“I’ve got a question,” Sigorn said. “Where are we going to settle once this is all done? North or south of the Wall?”

Tormund considered the question. “Well, considering there’s a gap in the Wall as big as a mammoth’s butthole at Eastwatch, and considering the Night’s Watch isn’t going to be fighting us, I guess it’s up to us to where we want to live,” he said. “King Crow said the lands directly south of the Wall, the Gift, could be open to us. That used to be land just for the Night’s Watch, but since there’s fewer of them, there’s plenty of land to live on, some of it even farmable during the summer. However, we could just as easily settle Beyond the Wall if we wanted. Nothing really stopping us.”

“We might want to rebuild the Fist of the First Men, Hardhome even,” Sigorn said. “If we can go wherever, we might have plenty of choices.”

“Hmm,” Tormund said, then looked at a man in black approaching. “Speaking of King Crow,” he added, getting to his feet and nodding at Jon as he approached.

“Tormund, Signorn,” he said, nodding to both, but he noticed the body on the ground. “Your…? Tormund, I’m so sorry.” Jon immediately gathered him in for a hug, to everyone else’s surprise except Tormund.

“Thank you,” Tormund replied. “Your Dragon Queen make it through?”

“Roughed up, but still breathing,” Jon said. “We have some visitors?”

“Just outside the gates,” Tormund confirmed. “Some big guests… and a little guest. Sigorn and I will go with you.”

“Lead the way,” he said.

#

**Jon**

It had been a year or two since Jon had seen a living giant.

The one before him appeared to be at least twice his height, with reddish-brown hair topping his head and nearly obscuring his squinting green eyes, as well as all over most of his body underneath his furs, and a full beard. He carried a primitive stone axe with a handle as tall as his shoulders. To Jon, he appeared to be the equivalent age of a human in his thirties. Several dozen yards away, another giant, darker haired and younger, stood doing the best a ten-foot tall being could do to not be seen.

Suddenly, there was another unfamiliar creature that ambled from behind the lead giant’s leg and stood no higher than his ankle. He was brown, dappled with darker spots like a deer, with large, pointed ears, and hands that only had three fingers and a thumb, all clawed. The creature stared at Jon with slitted mossy green eyes.

“You’re one of the Children,” Jon said. He’d remembered Bran’s descriptions of the ones he’d seen.

To his surprise, the Child of the Forest responded in the Common Tongue. “The nearest to my name in your tongue is Root. I was a friend of Leaf, who looked after your brother Beyond the Wall.”

Jon, not sure what to say, merely nodded. “What brought you here?”

“I responded to Bran the Raven’s call, as did these giants here,” Root said, pointing upward. “This is Dar Don Tar Weg Wun, the one who looks over this band of giants. He only speaks the… Old Tongue.”

“I am Tormund Giantsbane of the Freefolk, and this is Sigorn, Magnar of the Thenns,” Tormund said behind him. “We speak the Old Tongue and can translate.”

Jon now looked up at Dar Don, who leaned on his axe as he looked on. “My name is Jon Snow,” he began, with Sigorn translating his words. “I am also known as Jaehaerys Targaryen, son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. Through them, and through my wife, Queen Daenerys Targaryen, I am King of Westeros. And, I truly thank you for coming to help protect my home from the Others.”

Dar Don’s tongue began to rumble in response. “I am leader of this band of giants,” Tormund translated. “We may be the last of our kind, I do not know.” He pointed back at the younger giant. “This is Mag Mar Wun Don Dun,” he said, “he’s too shy for men.” He then pointed to four large shapes in the still-smouldering Wolfswood. “Those are our wives,” he said, “they’re more shy.”

“Wives?” Jon said.

Dar Don held up two fingers. “Two each. I thank you for banishing the Others, who have killed many of my kind. However, we will soon go back beyond the Great Wall. We seek to rebuild and grow our people.”

“Very well,” Jon said. “I wish you the best luck, and that your group is not the last of your kind.” He approached Dar Don and Root. “My mother was a descendant of Brandon the Builder. Ages ago, my ancestors agreed to The Pact with the giants and the Children. As King of Westeros, I renew that pledge with your peoples and my own pledge to not only help you survive, but thrive and grow.”

“Ages ago, we unleashed a great horror on this land, in an attempt to protect our people,” Root said. “But the magic ran out of control and came to harm us all. You and your brother have helped make that wrong right at last.”

Jon extended his hand. “It is only the least of what I would do for my friends.”

After a moment, Root reached up and took Jon’s hand in his three-fingered one. After they shook hands, Jon looked up and saw Dar Don reaching down with his own hand. Jon barely had a grasp of the giant’s index finger, but they made do the best they could.

“I understand that Bran the Raven is injured,” Root said.

“Yes, in the castle.”

“May I visit him? I may be able to see if there is anything… beyond the knowledge of men that might be ailing him.”

“Of course,” Jon said.

#

**Sansa**

She found Arya on top of the Great Keep, looking out to the west as Sansa approached. Arya looked more clear-eyed, more rested, after a dip in the bath and new clothes, despite her facial scratches and eye bruise she’d helped treat. She was surprised that her sister had not voiced any objections to the simple but elegant dark green dress she’d had her wear, with a dark grey woolen cloak to keep away the chill. “What are you looking at?” Sansa said.

Arya nodded toward the treeline of the Wolfswood, the line of trees just past the fire break that Joren and his men had dug. “Look out there,” she said. “Nymeria and Red Claw are having a walk.”

Sansa had to squint, but she managed to pick out Nymeria’s grey form walking alongside a russet-colored direwolf. “Red Claw?”

“That’s what I named Nymeria’s mate,” Arya whispered. “He and Nymeria are the alpha male and female of the pack.”

“But how do you kn…oh… oh…” Sansa stuttered in surprise as she saw Red Claw, after what appeared to be some preliminary snorts at Nymeria’s neck and rear, mount Arya’s childhood pet from behind. If Nymeria was not exactly encouraging of the attention, neither was she discouraging.

“You forgot everything Father taught us about wolf packs?” Arya asked in disbelief. “The alpha male and female of the pack are usually the only ones who mate in a pack to keep it from growing too fast. Half the younger ones in their pack look like either Nymeria or Red Claw.”

“Oh,” Sansa said. She saw Red Claw… finish, and then get down from Nymeria and come around to touch their noses together. Then, they went off further west, disappearing in the tree line, apparently to hunt. “Do you think they’ll stay here at Winterfell?”

“Not permanently, I don’t think,” Arya replied. “They may stick around this area – plenty of hunting for them, room to roam. It’s nice to know she has her own pack, though.”

“Would Ghost go with them?” Sansa said.

Arya laughed at that. “He’s too much of a softie not to want Jon’s attention, and he’s almost worse around Daenerys, now. And I don’t see Ghost as wanting to be a lower-rank male in his own sister’s pack. It might be interesting to see if one of Nymeria’s pack decides to hang around _him_. That’s what happens to direwolves, usually – they stay subordinate in their home pack… or split off and create a pack of their own,” she said, almost whispering the last part.

“So, are you ready to make that visit?” Sansa said.

Arya nodded. “Yes, it needs to be done now… wait, Sansa? I’m going to have to… prepare myself before we go down.”

“What do you mean by prepare…?” Sansa began to say, then noticed a familiar bag at her sister’s feet. “Oh.”

Arya gave her sister a solemn nod before reaching into the bag. “I think under the circumstances, a demonstration is needed.”

Sansa nodded in turn, resolved to go along with her sister’s plan. “Very well.”

#

**Tyrion**

For the first time since he’d sat down by his bedside, Varys began to stir. Part of Tyrion wished he hadn’t, under the circumstances.

The fever had gripped him well and good by the next day after his injury. From what he’d heard from the maesters, they had tried to stitch up and bind his wounds, but it had wound up being a disaster trying to connect his guts properly and make it work as it had before. Under the circumstances, they had bound and stitched him up to the best of their abilities and wished for the best.

Finally, he saw Varys ease open his eyes. “Hello, old friend,” he said to Tyrion. “We’re not in the afterlife yet, I take it?”

“No,” Tyrion said with a smile, shaking his head.

“Then… I am assuming that your king managed to win the battle?”

“There were many losses, but… he managed to win in the end.”

“Good to know… I’d be in worse shape otherwise. Or, would I be?” he asked.

“Perhaps not.”

Varys’ eyes focused on Tyrion, trying to ignore what pain there was. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”

“I’m afraid so,” Tyrion replied.

There was a knock at the door. “Yes?” Tyrion called out.

“May we come in?” a voice behind the door asked.

Tyrion recognized Sansa’s voice. “Of course, My Lady.”

The door opened and Sansa entered, followed by a mousy brown-haired young girl in a dark green dress and an apron worn by those women working as healers with Serenei and the maesters. As Sansa sat down and greeted him, he saw the girl check on Varys.

“The maesters told me they gave you some milk of the poppy a few hours ago,” the girl said to Varys.

“Yes, it seems I’m not in as much pain as I should be,” Varys said as he tried and failed utterly to sit up in bed. Shredded stomach muscles were no help to him. “My dear, my friend over there believes I’m in bad shape. Is he correct?”

The girl fixed him with a dead-eyed dark stare. “Yes,” she replied. “You’ll be dead by today. Maybe midday, but you might survive until evening. You won’t last until morning, though.”

“I see,” Varys said.

“You need to rest, Varys,” Tyrion said. “Your role in what is to come is over.”

“Correct,” the girl said, staring back at Tyrion. “However, there will have to be a successor to Lord Varys as Master of Whispers.”

Varys considered the young girl in front of him with new eyes. “Young girl,” he said, “what do you know of such things?”

The girl nodded. “What I do know, Lord Varys, is that sometimes the answer to some questions are right underneath our noses.” With that, she grabbed at the side of her face.

Tyrion practically jumped in his chair as the girl began to apparently peel her face off her skull, minus any blood or viscera. He glanced over at Sansa to see if she was seeing the same thing. She was staring at the girl not in shock, but more in dread. Tyrion was even more surprised at Varys’ expression as the girl finished removing her face to reveal the somewhat battered visage of Arya Stark. His expression appeared to be more one of fascination.

“Lady Arya,” he said simply. “Apparently, you are one of the Faceless Men of Braavos?”

“I was,” she said as she took a seat next to his bed. “I learned more than a few things from them. That life wasn’t right for me, but it’s given me some talents that will prove useful now.”

What appeared to be another wave of pain swept over Varys. “So, your demonstration…”

“You’ll be dead soon, and my brother and goodsister are going to need another Master of Whisperers,” she said, practically ignoring her sister and former goodbrother. “Not that I particularly want the job, but I’m the best qualified person around to do it.”

_Seven hells, but she is a scary, dark woman, _Tyrion thought to himself. _Best not to make her your enemy._

Varys inspected Arya from head to toe. “How old are you? You can’t be twenty…”

“Eight and ten, and you weren’t that many name days older than me when you entered into the service of King Aerys,” she said. “I can get the job done, and I have an advantage over you, as well.”

“And that is?” Varys said.

“Jon and Daenerys trust her. They don’t quite trust you,” Sansa explained.

Tyrion finally recovered enough of his senses to be able to talk. “Also, I think both Their Graces would be more open to Lady Arya’s advice than your own. She would certainly be a person who could restrain any… rash decisions.”

Varys kept his gaze fixed on Arya. “What are you proposing?”

“I need to have access to all your papers and ciphers. I need to know what you know,” she began. “I also need you to send some messages to your birds, let them know you’re out and I’m in.”

“Not all of them will likely transfer their loyalties to you,” Varys pointed out.

“Enough of them will to make a difference; I know not all of them will,” she said.

“I see,” Varys said. “Anything else?”

“I need the names of Qyburn’s agents here at Winterfell,” she continued. “At least some of them likely survived last night’s battle.”

“Indeed. You plan to eliminate them?” Varys asked innocently.

Arya shook her head. “I think they might be useful in passing along some songs that we want Cersei to hear, actually.”

“Indeed? I’d been thinking of doing something like that.” Varys now considered Arya with more of a professional appreciation. “What do I get for my cooperation?”

“About the only thing that’s useful to you now – the kind of death that you want,” Arya said. “Do you want it to be quick and painless? Do you want to live as long as you can? Whatever you want, it will be yours. If you don’t cooperate, then… I get to decide what your death is going to be.” Her grey eyes bored into him. “Either way, Spider, this is the end.”

After a long pause, Varys appeared to realize the logic in the young woman’s words. Nodding, he said, “Where do you want to start?”

#

**Daenerys**

It was so hard to pry her eyes open from the banging pain inside her head. She also wasn’t sure of what she would see once they were open. Steeling herself, she used the heels of her hands to help open them.

She was in her and Jon’s room inside Winterfell. There was a blazing fire in the fireplace, and she was covered up to her neck in heavy wolf and bear pelts. It seemed like she was alone for a moment, until… “Dany? Dany, you’re up.”

She felt Jon’s arms gingerly encircle her as he eased himself into bed with her. “How are you, love? I’m so glad you’re awake.”

Despite her headache, she melted into his embrace as she noticed someone had changed her clothes and that she now wore a sleep shift. “I take it that My King managed to defeat the enemy last night, or I would have woken up someplace far different.”

“Aye,” he said. “It was a near-run thing, but we managed it. I was just so worried about you…”

“What about you, though? Are you all right?”

Jon waved her concerns away. “Just a scratch or two, nothing compared to what I usually get,” he said. “You were the one who got banged up this time. I’ve been here off and on ever since.”

“You _haven’t,_” she said. “I’m sure everyone else needed your attention, Jon…”

“There’s more than just us,” Jon said. “Everyone has been busy trying to get everything sorted out. But you’re my wife. You’re my priority.”

Something managed to get through her head despite its pounding. “Ser Jorah. What happened to him?”

Her heart fell as Jon’s eyes dropped. “They found his body among the palisades to the north,” he said. “He was there with Khal Doro, several of the bloodriders, surrounded by fallen wights.”

A sob escaped her throat before she could stop it, and her hands flew to her mouth. “Oh, no,” she cried as Jon pulled her closer to him while taking care not to squeeze her too hard. She was grateful for that, as it felt like she had some generous bruising over different parts of her body. “He loved me, even though I couldn’t love him back. Your friend saved him from greyscale, only for this to happen…”

“It was what Jorah wanted,” Jon said, trying to do anything to calm her sadness. “I could tell when he held you up for Rhaegal to carry. His last wish was to see you safe. After all the times he felt he’d fallen short of the ideal knight during his life, if he had to die, he would have preferred it to be like this.”

“You might be right, Jon,” she said, starting to calm down, “but I’ll always miss him.”

“Of course you would,” Jon said. “I understand that.”

There was a knock on the door. “Your Graces, may I come in?”

Jon recognized the voice of Serenei. “Yes, please.”

Serenei came through the door alone, dark circles under her eyes and her bright blond hair beginning to escape a messy ponytail after not sleeping for the past day. She stared in surprise at Daenerys, but then bowed to her. “_Myhsa, _I am glad you are awake. I can talk to both of you then.”

“Of course,” Jon said. “She has… a concussion, you said?”

Serenei nodded as she came to stand at the foot of her bed. “It’s an injury to your brain. To recover, you will have to rest for a few days, try not to give yourself too much stress. You’ve also suffered some bumps and bruises, but no broken bones or more serious injuries.”

“I’m surprised I didn’t get more than I did, with all of those creatures attacking us. The dragons… I think they are resting, now. I sense it,” Daenerys said as she tried to reach out and feel the presence of her children.

“They were headed over to the hot springs from what I saw after the battle,” Jon said.

Daenerys nodded. “Both of them were injured in the fight with Vis… the Night King, and Drogon received some further wounds trying to protect me. However, given time, both should heal well.” She turned to Jon. “Thank you for what you did. I… don’t think I could have struck the ending blow against Viserion.”

“I can’t even imagine,” Jon said.

“Your Graces,” Serenei said, “I apologize, but I needed to ask the queen something regarding her health. When I was examining her early this morning, I… noticed something.”

Puzzled, Daenerys now turned her attention to Serenei. “What did you need to ask?”

“Again, _Mhysa, _pardon me if this is too forward of a question, but… when was the last time you had your moonblood?”

The question froze her in place. _No. It can’t have happened. _Her heart was gripped with not anger at the question, but a stunned disbelief. _I was told…_

“My Queen? When was your last moonblood?” Serenei gently prodded.

She felt Jon wrap his arm around her shoulders to comfort her, and out of the corner of her eye she saw him stare at her at stunned shock. _The lack of energy, the uneven appetites, the sleepiness that I ignored… Gods._ “Two moonturns ago,” she finally said.

Serenei nodded. “Yes, that seems about right.”

“Wait, wait, are you _sure _about this?” Daenerys said, her voice sharp in irritation.

“Your Grace, I’ve helped many dozens of women with their pregnancies and births,” Serenei replied, unfazed. “I’d have to say it’s more of my specialty than binding wounds. From everything I observed, you are expecting a child.”

Daenerys blinked and she sank into her bed as she realized how she had sounded. “My apologies, Serenei,” she said. “It’s just… I was told I could not have children.”

“What did I tell you about unreliable witches, Dany?” she heard from her side. She turned to face Jon. The slightest hint of tears began to pool in the corner of his eyes as his expression was one of shock and wonder, his mouth open and breathing in a ragged manner. He reached out to cup the side of her face.

“A child grows inside you, _Mhysa. _I am certain of it.”

Jon turned to Serenei, unable to hide the terror that suddenly gripped him. “The fall,” he said brokenly, “did it hurt the baby?”

The healer shook her head. “No, Your Grace. If it had, we would have seen signs of it long before now. The child should be as healthy as any.”

Jon slumped onto the bed in relief as he gathered Daenerys fully into his arms as they were propped up in the bed. “Thank you,” he said.

Serenei nodded. “Your Graces, I should mention that Tyr… Lord Tyrion and some of your advisors wished to meet with you as soon as they could…”

“Yes, and we will,” Jon said, nodding furiously, “but… can you have them wait for a few moments? I need to talk to the queen alone. When we’re done, I’ll come get them and we can talk.”

“Of course, Your Graces,” Serenei said, kneeling. “I will pass along your message. Again, congratulations.”

After Serenei left the room, Daenerys turned to Jon, saying, “Jo…”

He stilled her voice with a kiss, a tender one with passion and yet care for her condition. Jon pulled her down to lay on top of him, brushing her silver-blond hair aside from her face as he kissed her forehead, jaw, and behind her ears in turn. “Jon, I… I don’t know what to say.”

Jon fixed her with his grey eyes, a finger to her lips. “First and above all, I love you.”

She kissed his finger. “I love you too.”

“I would say you have made my dreams come true, but that is not quite right,” he said. “Six years ago, I stood watch on the Wall, one of the brothers in black. I had resigned myself to having no family but the one I left behind in Winterfell, nothing of my own. I never wanted to have children that would bear a bastard’s name.”

“Our children would bear the name Targaryen, Jon,” she said, chuckling.

“But that’s my point,” Jon said. “I never dreamed of this, any of this. The most I ever thought I was going to be was a ranger in the Night’s Watch, and now I’m proposing to rule an entire continent with you. It’s madness.”

“More than an entire continent, Jon,” Daenerys said, rubbing her forehead to ease her persistant headache. “You forget Dragon’s Bay and the rest of the territory I’ve won in Essos.”

“Again, that’s my point. Dany… you’ve given me more than I ever dared to desire, more than I ever dared being a bastard. That was _before_ this news. Now, we’re going to be our own family, our own… pack, flight, whatever you want to call it…” He shook his head. “Wait, you said _children_.”

Her hands drifted down to her lower belly. “It could be a boy or girl… but it could just as easily be one of each. Twins are not uncommon among House Targaryen.”

“I’ll take any type of dragonwolf as long as it’s healthy and happy,” Jon said, laughing. “Gods, we’re going to be a family.”

A troubling thought popped into Daenerys’ mind just then. “Jon, this means we _have_ to take care of Cersei. She was willing to have your brother stabbed to death in his sickbed and ordered the murder of King Robert’s bastards, even the babies, remember? Any child we have… she would see it as a threat.”

Jon suddenly laid his forehead gently on her belly. “I know. As I promised to protect you, now I promise to protect this one… or these ones, whichever the case.” Chuckling, he shook his head and kissed her belly before gathering her in his arms again. “Now the smallfolk’s prayers, the ones for peace, good crops and strong children… those are our prayers as well. After we secure the peace, we need to build something worthy of both their children and ours, something better than the shit that there is now.”

_My Jon knows my own heart, what needs to be done for the people. _“We will,” Daenerys said. “I love you, my King.”  
  


“I love you, my Queen.”

#

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, hope you enjoyed this. There were a couple of twists and turns, and one thing that I admit I'd been telegraphing for a couple past chapters.
> 
> Next chapter, we'll get an update on some of our more prominent wounded warriors, and Jon and Dany meet with their advisers to start planning their next steps against the Lioness in King's Landing.


	32. The Day After Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two knights of the realm take stock. The true king and queen of Westeros plan their next move with their council. The pack watches over its wounded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is the second (of just two! Promise.) chapters regarding the day after the Battle of the Long Night. Enjoy.

32.

**Brienne**

She couldn’t take her eyes off her former squire.

She sat next to the large pile of bodies that was growing and spreading out on the plains north of Winterfell. The only thought that she could keep steady in her mind was _what a bloody waste._

She felt a hand on her right shoulder. “Come on, you need to rest,” she heard Ser Jaime say to her.

Brienne turned around to face her fellow exhausted knight. “Many others need to be gathered…”

“Yes yes yes, but you’ve _done_ your part, haven’t you?” Jaime said, pulling her to her feet. “Please. It’s already past midday and you haven’t had anything to eat since yesterday.”

“Golden Boy has a point,” Ser Bronn said as he approached them from behind. His head was bandaged from a blow he’d received from a club-wielding wight and his left arm in a sling from a bronze sword cut. With his good arm, he reached over and patted Podrick’s corpse on the chest. His voice was missing its usual sense of irony and cynicism. “I miss the lad, too, but there’s no sense in working yourself senseless because of it.”

Brienne sighed. “Very well, maybe we can find some soup or something.” She and Bronn followed Jaime as he started walking back to the castle.

Brienne strapped Podrick’s sword to her own waist and tied up a rag bundle she had in her other hand. “I’ll need to send along his personal effects to his family in the Westerlands. I’m not sure if either of his parents are still alive, but we can send it to House Payne, along with an explanation of his death.”

“I’m sure they’d appreciate knowing he died a knight,” Bronn said with not a hint of sarcasm.

_Maybe he does have a heart,_ Brienne thought. “At least I’ll have some time to get that done. That would be likely, Ser Jaime?”

That earned her a chuckle from Jaime. “Well, despite my brief consultation with our secret dragon, I doubt that they will be taking me into their confidence very soon.”

“Jaime,” she said, “you fought bravely last night, you kept your word to Their Graces…”

“Thanks to the supervision of the Unsullied and yourself, it should be said.” Jaime was in full japing form again after the desperation of last night, and except for a prominent nick on the back of his golden hand, he was otherwise unmarked by that fight.

“They will be aware of it, I will make sure of it,” said Brienne.

“Now, if you let them know how well _I _fought last night, Lady Knight, maybe I can get that castle I keep getting promised,” Bronn said.

Jaime gave Bronn a playful thump on the chest with his gold hand. “I think we can guarantee that Brienne will argue our case before the new royals… although I do believe that you still have to help create that map of the tunnels and passages underneath King’s Landing.”

“Good job that we’re going to have some time for me to get that done before we’re going anywhere, isn’t it?” Bronn japed back.

“I don’t need an audience with the king and queen to sort that out,” Jaime said, nodding. “We’re here for another month at least, maybe six weeks. Time enough for most of the wounded to recover and for us to gather enough horses, wagons, and supplies to make the trek down south.”

“Right to King’s Landing, then?” she said.

“No other place to go, since that’s where Cersei is. The only person who gives half a fuck about her is standing right here,” Bronn replied, clapping Jaime on the shoulder. “Everyone else around her’s in it for the power, the money… maybe her company in the case of Euron Greyjoy, but that’s about it. Once she’s d…gone,” he continued, sneaking a look at Jaime, “nobody’s going to care about the dragons over there saying they’re in charge.”

“He’s right,” Jaime said. “I know what the song is going to be about. All there is to do is wait and hear what the tune will sound like and how long the song will last.”

#

**Daenerys**

The door to their chamber came open and Jon poked his head in. “Dany?” he almost whispered. “Are you ready?”

She rearranged a spare strand of hair behind her ear and sat up in bed. “Yes, everyone can come in.”

Jon opened the door wider and waved people inside. He walked over to the bed and sat with her, taking her hand in his. Tyrion, Sansa, Arya, Missandei, and Grey Worm came in and stood in a semicircle around her bed. She was glad to see that Grey Worm appeared unhurt and had a double-take at the scuffs and bruises on Arya’s face. _Wait a minute… _“Where’s Lord Varys?” she asked.

“Dead, Your Grace,” Tyrion said somberly. “Last night, a group of undead animals attacked the Great Keep. Varys was wounded severely by one of them. He… succumbed to his wounds an hour or so ago.”

She looked down at her lap. “I see.” She was surprised at how sorry she was at the news. “Lord Varys and I had our disagreements about strategy, but he was of great value to us and truly cared about the fate of this place and its people. He will be missed.” She turned to Tyrion. “Do you have any ideas about who might replace him? I know you have more than enough to do, but would you need to take that on?”

“Actually, your goodsister has volunteered her services in that regard,” Tyrion said, nodding to Arya.

“It’s not like I wanted the job,” Arya said, sighing. “But, Your Grace, you know my background as one of the Faceless Men, and my other training. I’m very likely the best liar in my family.”

Daenerys grinned back at her. “Better than my beloved, at least.”

“Certainly.” Arya shifted her feet. “Anyway… it’s a job you need done, and I’m probably the best person you’ve got sitting around to be Mistress of Whispers, I guess?”

_Hmm, I thought I was going to break the wheel. A mistress… _“Likely, but… Missandei? I’m the one that people call the Breaker of Chains, correct? The one that turned Slaver’s Bay into Dragon’s Bay? It doesn’t seem quite right to have people with the title of Master and Mistress working for me, does it?”

Missandei realized she was asking her for advice. “I can see your point, Your Grace. Perhaps another term could be used, perhaps magister? It is a common term in the Free Cities.”

“I appreciate Her Grace’s desire for a more… enlightened way of ruling, as always,” Tyrion said. “Magister is a better alternative… but it’s a bit more of an Essoi term than a Westerosi term, is it? What about… Minister? To minister to someone is to care for them, whether to royalty or smallfolk. It sounds like magister, and it also would work equally for both men and women.”

“Minister…” Daenerys laughed and shook her head. “You and your words, My Hand. First the idea of a High Kingdom, and now this.”

“High Kingdom?” Missandei said.

“Yes, the High Kingdom of Westeros and New Valyria,” Tyrion responded.

“_New_ Valyria?” Sansa said.

“That’s the name for those areas we have liberated in Essos,” Daenerys said. “All of Dragon’s Bay, including Yunkai, Astapor, and Meereen, Ghiscar, the Dothraki Sea, and what remains of the old Valyrian Peninsula. Just because we are here does not mean we will abandon those areas to chaos.”

“Yes, I don’t believe that we will be able to leave Meereen and the rest of them in the hands of Daario Naharis and the Second Sons in the long term,” Tyrion observed.

“Why not? Who are they?” Sansa said.

“Daario is the captain of the Second Sons, a sellsword company,” Tyrion explained. “He has a… close loyalty to Daenerys, but he’s still a sellsword…”

“What Tyrion is dancing around is the fact that Daario is a former lover of mine,” Daenerys said, not able to keep her eyes from rolling at the statement.

Sansa and Arya glanced at each other in mild shock, then looked to Jon. “I already knew about the man. Dany and I… we’ve shared all of our pasts,” he said.

“A problem for another day,” Daenerys said. “Goodsister, would you be willing to serve as our Acting Minister of Whispers?”

Arya kneeled before the bed, drawing her dagger and holding it over her heart. “It would be my honor, Goodsister.”

“Excellent. Tyrion, best send a raven to Dragonstone to inform Ser Davos that he is now _Minister_ of Sail. _You _can remain my Hand,” she said, her sarcasm evident.

“Of course, Your Grace.”

She saw Jon beaming at his sister from by her side. “You happen to have anything to report just now?” he asked her.

“Actually, I do,” she said as she stood up and sheathed Catspaw. “However, I think I will wait for Tyrion to finish talking before I do.”

“Yes, My Hand?”

Tyrion pulled a piece of paper from his coat pocket and opened it. “I’ve talked to Maester Wolken, the other maesters, and the healers. We have a rough idea of our casualties from the previous night,” he said, his voice low and somber.

She nodded. “Go ahead.”

Tyrion looked down at his numbers. “Of the 50,000 Dothraki, 30,000 are dead or seriously wounded,” he said. “They were in the open and in the closest combat with most of the Others. Khal Doro is among the dead.”

Daenerys closed her eyes and sighed. “They sacrificed so much for me,” she said.

“For all of us, I agree,” Tyrion said. “We will have to meet and select a new overall Khal for them… one that is not Jon, obviously.”

She nodded. “Keep going.”

“Of the 8,000 Unsullied, 500 were either killed or seriously wounded. Considering how heavily they were engaged, that was better than I expected.”

“Last night was the first time I saw the Unsullied in action,” Jon said. “My Queen has said much about their skill, but she was quite modest in her description. Grey Worm, please pass along my personal thanks to your men for what they have done.”

Grey Worm bowed, appearing surprised at the compliment. “It is our honor to serve the Khaleesi and yourself.” He had been one of the more cautious of her inner circle about Jon, but since her marriage to him, she could tell that Jon was making a conscious effort to build a good working relationship with the Unsullied commander.

“Of the 15,000 Knights of the Vale, there were 4,000 dead or seriously wounded,” Tyrion said. “Lord Yohn Royce is among the wounded, but he is expected to recover. Ser Harold Hardyng, the High Lord Robin Arryn’s cousin and heir, took over acting leadership of the Knights for now. Larence Snow also distinguished himself with his command of the Northern cavalry.”

“We’ll have to legitimize Larence,” Jon said. “He’s the head of House Hornwood now, anyway.”

“It will be done,” Daenerys said. “The others, my Hand?”

“Of the 5,000 Freefolk, there were about 500 dead and seriously wounded. Of the 25,000 Northern soldiers and irregulars, there were 8,000 dead or seriously wounded. Among the dead are Lord Robett Glover. Lord Wyllis Manderly suffered a broken leg, but he is expected to recover. Many of the overage fighters among the irregulars made sure they were among the first to engage the Others and fall.”

“Good,” Arya said matter-of-factually.

Daenerys was a bit put off by that statement. “What do you _mean_ by that?”

“It is winter in the North,” Arya said, staring off into the distance. “I have yet to experience it, but my father taught us about the ways of our people during this time. When the winter gets hard and food hard to find, many of the old go on hunting trips far into the deepest of woods, away from home and hearth. They do not intend to find food, but they want to make sure that the young can eat and survive the long winters. This was their way to go on a final hunt.”

Daenerys turned to Jon, who surprised her by nodding to Arya. “Sometimes that’s the only way life can go on in this place when the winters are that harsh,” he said sadly. “The old pass on so the young can grow, thrive, and create new families.”

“I see,” Daenerys said. _I am married to a Northerner, will rule Northerners, and will give birth to children with Northern blood. But, there is so much I still do not understand of them… I will have to learn. _“Tyrion, what of Lady Lyanna Mormont? I’d heard that she’d supposedly killed an undead giant, but I didn’t think it to be true…”

“It was true, believe it or not,” Tyrion said. “She was seriously injured in the attack, though she survives despite a cracked skull, broken arm, and broken ribs. Apparently, she insists that she and her men will march south with us.”

“Incredible. Anything else?”

“Only 300 of the 2,500 Riverlanders were killed or seriously wounded,” Tyrion concluded. “They saw the least amount of fighting along the southern wall.”

“My Uncle Edmure is already sending ravens to the Riverlands,” Sansa said. “He believes that he can raise more soldiers when we pass through there to King’s Landing.”

“Very good,” Daenerys said. “How many fighters would that leave us for the march south?”

“Not all of the survivors would be able to go down,” Jon said. “Some of them were women, children, not those I would wish to take south. Apparently, Tormund Giantsbane’s gooddaughter was fighting the Others last night, and she was six moons pregnant.”

Daenerys’ eyes grew as wide as an owl’s. “Gods, is she all right?”

Jon nodded. “So, even with some of the irregulars missing, we’ll still have an army of at least 50 to 60,000, I think.”

“Those numbers don’t include our forces at White Harbor, the Neck, and Dragonstone,” Tyrion said. “I also believe that we should reach out to the nobles of the Stormlands and Dorne, to see if we could find assistance from them, as well.”

“I imagine that this will not be a quick process,” Daenerys said.

“True,” Jon said. “I think we will need at least a month to refit our forces, allow the wounded to heal, and ready the amount of supplies we will need to head south. We’ll also need time to gather our forces.”

“We will go to King’s Landing, then?” she said.

Tyrion nodded. “Cersei is the important one. Neutralize her, and your path to the Iron Throne is open. It appears that she is concentrating her forces there, correct, Lady Arya?”

Arya blinked, then realized it was her turn to speak. “The Sp… Lord Varys’ last reports from his birds in the Riverlands, the Reach, and the Westerlands agreed that Lannister and allied garrisons are stripping themselves of men and provisions to go to the capital. They are only leaving token forces to keep the peace among the smallfolk.”

“So, she’s planning to concentrate her forces there to better protect the capital,” Jon said.

“Or… she wishes to attack us?” Grey Worm suggested.

Jon thought for a moment. “I don’t think she’d even try to assault the Neck, but once we get south of there… maybe.”

“Your Grace, it will not be a straight march to the capital for us, even though there would be no point in us occupying any lands held by Cersei’s forces,” Tyrion said. “We will likely pause in the Riverlands to see what forces can be raised there, for one. Secondly, we will have to find a rally point, a location where our forces from Dragonstone and any allies we manage to raise can meet with our main force.”

“You have a location in mind, My Hand?” Daenerys asked.

“Harrenhal, My Queen,” Tyrion said. “It seems the obvious choice; such a sizable castle would be enough to shelter and further supply our forces, despite any deprivations from retreating royal forces. It’s centrally located and a relatively close march to King’s Landing. And, according to Varys’ reports, there is only a token Lannister force there.”

“The castle doesn’t even have a lord at the moment,” Arya said. “The last lord of Harrenhal was Littlefinger, and, well…” she finished, grinning.

Daenerys turned to Jon. “I think it makes sense,” he said.

She turned to Tyrion. “Go ahead and put things in motion,” she said. “Before you leave… I have something to tell all of you. Before I do, I must ask all of you here to keep what I am to say in the strictest confidence.” After a chorus of nods and “yes, Your Grace,” she decided to go forward. “I’ve recently learned that… the king and myself are expecting a child.”

Decorum flew out the window as first her goodsisters and then Missandei flew to her side. An excited Sansa took care to hug her around the shoulders and kissed her cheek. “Daenerys, I’m so happy for you… happy for Jon, too. Congratulations.” She reached over and hugged Jon as well.

“Thank you, Sansa,” she replied. “It was a big surprise for us.”

“I’m sure it was,” Missandei said. She well knew the story behind her son Rhaego’s loss. “This is a great gift.”

“Indeed.”

To her surprise, Arya leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “Well, you’re stuck with us now, for sure.”

“It appears to be true,” she said as Tyrion and Grey Worm gave their congratulations as well. “It is early in my pregnancy, so His Grace and myself have decided not to make a public announcement at this time. We think that would be for the best.”

“I’d agree,” Tyrion said. “In fact, it might be best to take your time in recovering from your injuries, stay out of sight.”

“What’s going on?” Jon asked.

Tyrion turned to Arya to explain. “Just before he died, Varys discovered the identities of birds in the service of Qyburn, Cersei’s Hand,” she said. “There are about three of them who survived the battle last night. We want them to report on what they see and hear.”

“That will be helpful to us?” Daenerys said as she arched her eyebrow.

“They will _not_ see either you or your dragons,” Arya said. “They will see large numbers of Dothraki and Unsullied drilling and fewer Northerners. What they will hear is that we can only muster 25,000 soldiers, most of them Essoi. They will hear that you are gravely injured, perhaps near death, and that both of your dragons are grounded with serious injuries. They will hear that Jon Snow is in command of these forces and many are wary of following his commands rather than those of their Khalessi. And that is exactly what we want Cersei to hear.”

“You wish… for the lion to be… bold? O…” Grey Worm said, struggling to find the right word in the Common Tongue.

“Overconfident,” Missandei volunteered.

“Yes,” he said, pointing to her and nodding. “Over…confident.”

Jon appraised his sister with a new eye. “Sneaky girl,” he said. “You’re hoping Cersei gets bold enough to try and attack us in open battle.”

“Either her or maybe Euron or her sellsword commanders,” Arya said.

Daenerys reached over to pat Arya on the shoulder. “Go ahead with your plan,” she said. “The rest of you will continue to assist with the efforts to dispose of the dead and prepare us for the later march.”

“Jon? Daenerys?” Sansa asked, hands clasped in front of her, “with the new baby… Would you not wish for it to be Jon’s successor as King in the North? I would be willing to step aside if that is your wish…”

“Far from it, actually,” Jon said, getting up from the bed and walking around to her. “When Dany and I formally accept the crown of the High Kingdom, I will be abdicating the crown to you. You and your children will serve as rulers in the North.”

For a moment, Sansa was at a loss for words. “Your child…”

“…will be the heir to the High Kingdom, not the North,” Jon said. “You are my oldest living Stark relative and the eldest surviving child of Lord Eddard. It is right that you be queen.”

She nodded. “A queen, but in your… High Kingdom?”

“It will be as I said before,” Daenerys said. “The North will defer to us in foreign affairs and in the defense of Westeros, but you will be in charge of your internal affairs.”

“It may seem like being a Wardeness of the North, but with extra steps,” Tyrion japed. “Nevertheless, you will be a queen.”

Sansa bowed before her brother and goodsister, still resting in the bed. “I thank you for this, and thank you for the opportunity to serve the North.”

Jon reached down and brought her to her feet, wrapping her in a hug. “You are the ruler our people need,” he said. “I know you will be a wise queen.”

“Thank you,” she said as they moved apart. “I need to see who might be available to help with our repairs.”

“There was much damage to the castle?” Daenerys asked.

“Not massive damage, except for the wall around the godswood, and many of the homes and buildings of the winter town need to be rebuilt for the winter,” she said. “There are also many things that have fallen into disuse, such as the First Keep and the Broken Tower. I think now might be the opportunity to put things right.”

“If there are any resources that Jon and I can provide you for those things, please let me know.”

“I will, Daenerys. Thank you.”

With that, the meeting of the advisers drifted to a close. All of them headed for the door except for Daenerys and Jon, who rejoined his wife seated on the bed. As Arya was about to be the last person to leave, Daenerys called out, “Arya? How is… Gendry?”

Arya turned around, seeming surprised at the question. “He was hurt in the fighting last night, but resting now,” she said. “The healers think he should recover.”

“I’m glad,” Daenerys said, beaming. “Best wishes.”

Arya gave her a small bow. “As to you, My Queen,” she said with a tiny grin before making her way out.

The queen turned around to see a quite perturbed king staring at her. “Am I the last member of my family to realize my sister’s fallen in love?”

“Yes,” Daenerys said, fighting to stop herself from giggling because she knew it would annoy her husband to no end and it would make her headache worse. “And don’t try to act like the protective brother, love. She’s a grown woman now, and I think she has someone suited to her. Besides, you’ll have your own children to worry about soon enough.”

He held her again, running his fingers over her forehead to calm her headache. “Aye, aye. I’ll likely have a talk with him, but I’ll be reasonable.”

There was a knock at the door. “Your Grace?” she heard, recognizing Maester Wolkan’s voice. “Come in,” she said.

Maester Wolkan poked his head around the door. “Your Graces,” he said. “Sire, the Red Priestess wishes to meet with you in the courtyard.”

“What does she want?” Jon said, getting up from the bed.

“Apparently, her and her followers are leaving the castle,” he said, “but she wished to speak with you before their departure.”

“Very well, I’ll be out in a moment.” As Maester Wolkan exited, Jon turned back to her. “I’ll need to see what she wants, then check on Bran and see if he’s all right. But I plan to be back here as fast as I can.”

“Of course,” she said. He turned to leave, but she grabbed his left wrist and pulled him to her. “My King, at some later point, when it doesn’t feel like an army is battering my head with a hundred war hammers,” she added, pulling his head down to her own, “I would like you to remind me why I’m in my… current condition.” She hoped the short yet thorough kiss that she laid down on Jon’s lips would leave no room for misinterpretation.

He ran his hand over her forehead again to soothe it. “As My Queen commands,” he said, smiling.

“Go, I’ll see you later. Check on your brother.”

#

**Jon**

Jon picked his way through the south courtyard to find Kinvara and the remnants of the Fiery Hand preparing to exit the South Gate. “Azor Ahai, welcome,” Kinvara said as he approached.

He ignored the greeting. “You’re leaving?”

She nodded. “We will travel to White Harbor to seek passage there.”

“Do you need supplies for the trip, coin for the passage?”

“We have more than enough supplies from those who have fallen, and we have already disposed of their remains according to our traditions,” she said. “We who have seen the bringing of the Dawn, the appearance of Azor Ahai, must spread that news to not only the followers of R’hllor, but to all people.”

“I see.”

She smiled knowingly at Jon. “You are not a follower of the Lord of Light, it is true,” she said. “That is not necessary for you to be a tool of his will. However, I’m surprised that you do not demand I remain quiet, or cease calling you by your true name.”

Jon snorted at that. “You know what the difference is between a king and a tyrant? A king seeks to lead men by reason, persuasion, and good works. A tyrant seeks to force people to believe in what he believes, and he’s stupid enough to think even some people will go along with it.” He shook his head. “Fate has turned me into a king, but I have no intention of becoming a tyrant. I will not accept your name for me, but I will not tell you what to believe.” His eyes softened for a moment. “You helped protect my home and the life of my brother. _That_ is what is important to me, and that is what I will not forget. I wish you and your followers safe passage to your destination.”

She bowed to him. “May the Lord of Light use his living flame to light your shining path, Azor Ahai, and protect you in the darkness. Farewell.” With that, she led the temple guards turned new prophets from Winterfell.

As Jon turned away from them, he saw Bran’s empty wheelchair where they had left it just outside the godswood. _Hope it is not stuck too deeply in the mud,_ he thought.

#

With a few mud clumps stuck to the rims, Jon pushed his brother’s chair up to his room, where Serenei stood outside. “Thought he might need this,” Jon said.

“Your Grace.”

“How is he now?”

“Still unconscious,” she said. “He took a blow to the head, but no sign of a cracked skull. His back also seems intact, but there were two broken ribs that we had to bind and set. Right now, he just needs to rest I think.” She paused for a moment, unsure of what to say next, until… “The… Child of the Forest is in there with him. That is what they are called, correct?”

“Yes.”

She sighed in exasperation. “I knew there was such things as dragons in this world, but… Gods. In a week, I’ve seen once-dead men and animals come to life, ice spiders, giants, and now… _him_. Will we see herds of unicorns next?”

“You’d only see them on the isle of Skagos.”

“It’s like all of the fairy tales were simply histories.”

Jon chuckled at that. “Perhaps there is more wild magic in my home than my Northern father ever suspected. Our nursemaid Old Nan wouldn’t have been surprised, though.” He pointed toward the door. “May I go in with this?”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

He found Bran lying in bed, eyes closed and arms folded over the furs covering his body. It was an eerie reminder of the last time he’d seen Bran, right after his fall, when he said farewell to him before leaving for the Watch. Now, however, instead of a frail child swallowed in the bed, there was a young man there, with a face minus any baby fat, shaggier hair, and arms and shoulders that appeared to be more solid and strong than he’d thought.

Root sat on a stool just to the right side of the bed, staring at Bran silently. Deciding that Bran’s wheelchair might be slightly too small for himself, he set it aside and took a stool for himself and sat on the other side. “How is he?”

Root looked up. “You talked with the human healer?”

“I did. You have anything to add?”

Root’s moss green eyes regarded Bran. “When the Night King was killed, his mystical energy, the energy of the Children, was dissipated and returned to the Children. So, too, was the energy that made your brother the Three-Eyed-Raven. His creation was a reaction by the Children, an attempt to fight against what the Night King had become, and what the energy did to all of Westeros. Because of that loss of energy, and the strain he underwent in fighting the Others, that is why he sleeps now.”

Jon reached over to take one of his brother’s hands. “So, he no longer has… abilities?”

Root shook his head. “He is still a greenseer, and can connect to different levels of consciousness, but at a lower level than he had before. His strength is more dependent on his health, the distance from him and where he chooses to see, and whether he is near weirwood trees. He will be a man of power, but… he is not a god.”

Jon chuckled as he squeezed Bran’s hand. “It’s for the best, I think. I could talk to him about how being a living god is overrated.”

“There are other effects of this power leaving the Others and returning to us,” Root said. “For centuries, at least, the loss of this power led to our health and numbers shrinking until we were nearly extinct. Now, however, our people can grow again.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“The energy, the darkness, it even affected the seasons of Westeros,” Root said. “That was the true reason behind the long winters and summers it experienced over the millennia. Now, however, you will see all four seasons in a single year. Some winters will be colder than others, some summers warmer, and the North will still be cooler than the rest of Westeros, but the seasons will stay roughly the same length.”

The news hit Jon like a bucket of cold water poured over his head. After growing up hearing stories of winters that could last for a generation, the idea of short summers and winters… it was truly strange to him. “The farmers will be happy with more regular seasons, I guess,” was about the only thing he could say to that. _I can’t even think about it now_.

Root hopped down from his stool. “Your brother will recover eventually. I will be leaving.”

“Where to?”

“My kind will stay north of the Wall for now, to recover and grow. I believe the giants will do the same.”

“You may live where you wish. I and my queen will make sure you are not disturbed. My sister will rule here in Winterfell, and will do the same. I will also tell the Freefolk to leave you in peace, as well. Will I see you again?”

Root extended his three-fingered hand again. “If we have need of you, Lightbringer, we will find you, or your brother. May the Old Gods watch over you and yours.”

Jon accepted his handshake. “May they look over us all.”

#

**Sansa**

She entered Arya’s room at the end of a long day.

It was going to take several days just to gather up all the bodies of both the Dragon Army and the Others for funeral pyres. She remembered her brother had estimated the amount of the Others as more than 100,000, and _all_ of them now littered her childhood home and its surroundings. Thankfully, the winter cold was slowing down the decomposition of the bodies to a certain extent, but they would need to be set afire soon.

“Still up, Arya?” Sansa said as she walked in.

Arya was flitting around her bed, now occupied by an unconscious Gendry, bare-chested but bandaged, with the sleeping furs pulled up to his waist. After making sure her hearth was stoked properly, she made sure that there were water containers on stands set on either side of the bed. She appeared to be wearing a grey fur-lined robe, with the furred collar flipped up around her neck, but no shoes or stockings.

“I’ll be in bed soon,” Arya said. She yanked down the covers, and Sansa flinched for a moment as she saw Gendry fully naked underneath except for the bandages on his chest and left arm and leg. Shaking her head as if to clear it, she stood by Arya as she checked to see if the dressing on his leg needed changed.

Trying to avoid staring at the bulky, powerful young man in the bed – _don’t want to look like I’m ogling my sister’s lover, _she thought – she turned to Arya. “You don’t have to do all of this for him,” she said. “I can get you some help…”

“He would do the same for me, without question,” Arya said, continuing to examine his dressings with her brows furrowed in concentration. “It’s what Jon is doing for Daenerys, and I’m sure she would do the same for him. We take care of each other.” Satisfied with her observations, she pulled the furs up enough to cover up his lap.

“Where are you sleeping, then?” Sansa said.

“Where do you think?” Arya replied as she folded the furs over on the opposite side of the bed. “He might need a chamber pot later…” She looked up at Sansa. “How is your knight doing?”

Sansa sighed. “He’s down below in one of the halls. They’ve got his wounds bound, but he’s running a slight fever. Maester Wolkan is thinking he should be able to pull through after a while.”

“Why keep him down there? I’m sure there’s plenty of room in your chambers for him.”

“I don’t think it would look right,” Sansa said. Her sister froze in place and glared at her, the old daggers clear as before. “I didn’t mean you, Arya, please don’t think that. I mean, you two are... lovers, so it makes sense for him to be here, but… nothing like that went on between Joren and myself. It wouldn’t make sense.”

Arya’s expression shifted from anger to curious puzzlement as she approached her and took her by both arms. “If you’re not in love with him, you _wish_ to be, I think, or wish to learn if you can love him,” she whispered. “You may think you can hide your feelings, or put them off until later, but take it from me… your heart doesn’t work like that.”

“I just worry about what people will think, the nobles.”

“Shove what they think,” Arya said, patting her on the cheek. _“Nobody_ should be able to tell a woman who they can love. Besides… Gods, Sansa, you’re going to be Queen in the North. There may be many who would _like _to control you, but they can’t.”

Sansa used her fingers to comb out some tangles in her sister’s hair. “How did you suddenly get to be so wise, little sister?”

“From making a shitload of mistakes and finally starting to learn from them,” she laughed. “I want you to be happy.”

“All right,” Sansa smiled. “I’ll take your counsel under advisement.”

“Great. Anyway, it’s time for bed.” Breaking off her embrace, in one motion she unfastened the belt to her robe and let it fall to the ground. She was wearing a tan sleeveless night shift underneath. With one hop, she was in bed and pulling the furs up higher over Gendry and herself. She tucked in against Gendry’s right side, pulling his right arm around herself as if she had done it for years.

_She looks like she is at home,_ Sansa thought, recalling her sister’s earlier words. Leaning over, she kissed her sleeping sister on the cheek. “Sweet dreams. Love you.”

“Love you too,” mumbled Arya as she laid her head onto Gendry’s chest.

#

“How is he doing?” Sansa asked.

Maester Wolkan turned to face her as he stood next to the sleeping Ser Joren on a cot in a hall filled with similar ones. “No change, My Lady, but he still seems to be out of imminent danger.”

“I was wondering, maester… I can see that you are in sore need of space for wounded, both here and in the sept. We can have Ser Joren moved into my chambers to allow him a quieter place to rest… and more space for you here.”

She could tell the request completely surprised the older maester. “Ah, My Lady… that is generous, but I would not want to impose on you…”

“It would be no imposition at all,” she said mildly. “I’ll be spending most of my time in my solar trying to sort out everything that needs done in the next few weeks, and only a door separates that from my sleeping chamber. I would be fine.”

While frowning, Wolkan collected himself, and then bowed before the Lady of Winterfell. “Of course, My Lady,” he said. “I’ll have some of the younger lads bring him up to your chambers. But please, do not hesitate to talk with me or the other maesters if you need other assistance.”

“Of course, maester. Thank you.” _Leadership should have some privileges, even for women_, she thought to herself.

#

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a couple of things:
> 
> 1\. There was a bit of getting the next act of the story moving along and seeing where the action will take us. We won't see any fighting for a while, but that will return in a big way, trust me on that.
> 
> 2\. If anyone can find the Rick and Morty reference I couldn't resist sticking in here, and mention it in the comments, you will get a virtual bow from me. :)
> 
> 3\. Those fluff fans among you who are following this, you are going to get a generous amount of fluff over at least the next two, three chapters, and even beyond. Let me know how I do. 
> 
> [AUTHOR'S NOTE 4.6.2020 - The next chapter is out way earlier than I expected - actually, it's out now. Feel free to check it out.]
> 
> 4\. As always, I love to hear from you, and I'm happy to talk with you in the comments as well.
> 
> Writers keep writing, and everyone keep safe.


	33. Arry and Bull

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya comes to a resolution and a man gains a name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, this was a QUICK turnaround for me - just a day after getting my last chapter out. It turns out that I had the majority of this chapter written and put on ice a while back. So, it was just a matter of updating a couple of things and putting it together.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy the fluff that was promised.

33.

**Arya**

For the two days he’d been in bed since the Long Night, she’d been sleeping next to him in his bed… _her bed, but anyway…_ waiting for him to stir. There had been times when she was away, like with Varys, seeing him into the next world, and then checking in on her brother and goodsister, and trying to absorb the news that she was going to be an aunt.

During the days, she sat in the stuffed chair that she’d set up next to her bed, and in the night, she shared the bed with him. He lay there, unconscious, with the wound in the top left corner of his chest wrapped and sewn shut and the slashes on his left arm also bandaged. He was undressed otherwise, the furs and blankets covering him from the chest down. Only the blazing fireplace, a lone candle next to her bed on a nearby nightstand, and the window to the courtyard let in any light.

She knew he lived, because every so often she would bring a cup of water to his lips, and he would drink, even if he got more than a little on his chest. The longer he was out, the more she feared he would never awake. Samwell came in occasionally, to examine him and assure her that he would live, but she still wasn’t certain. She knew how cunning the God of Death could be if he was really determined…

It was the second evening after The Long Night. She had accepted some bread and jerky beef that Samwell passed along to her earlier in the evening, which had been the first food she’d had in her recent memory. There was also a bottle of mead from the hives of the Reach that she’d more than halfway emptied and planned to finish off before the night was over. She felt helpless, not able to do more than keep him company, not able to say everything that had been left unsaid, what she’d feared to tell him and now cursed herself for not being brave enough to tell him plainly, because although he was quite intelligent, he best understood things in plain language. _Why was I so afraid…? It seems so fucking stupid now, he was never going to be one of those men you were afraid your father was going to force you to marry…_

Rising from the chair next to the bed, she set the bottle down on the nightstand and removed her clothes. She put on a grey sleeping shift, eased the furs back, and got into bed next to Gendry.

She tucked herself into the crook of his right arm and rested up against his right side, her head resting on the uninjured right side of his chest. She could smell the smoke of the forge and the steel, the smell of his blood, his own scent that calmed her and made her think of a different type of home. The fire was still blazing, but Gendry’s warmth was what kept the chill away as she tried to chase away the nightmares of the past couple of days.

As Arya was just about to nod off to sleep, she felt Gendry move his head toward hers, felt him breathe in the scent of her hair from the top of her head. When she looked up, he was staring down with eyes the color of the sea near the Stormlands. “Arry, that you?” he croaked.

When she raised her head and saw him awake, all the grief and anger that had stabbed at her during the battle came flooding back. “You _stupid_ fucking _bull_,” she hissed, “what gave you the right to get your stupid ass killed trying to save me? What were you trying to prove?”

He started to stir himself out of his stupor, wincing as he moved his left arm for the first time in days. “Wasn’t trying to prove anything, Arry,” he mumbled. “I was just trying to save you… Seven Hells, what happened to you?” His hand brushed tenderly across her right eye, where the skin around it was a mix of black, blue, yellow, and green.

_He’s got three stab wounds in him and he’s worried about my face getting scratched. Unbelievable. _“The one I fought’s in worse shape. Anyway, I didn’t _need_ saving, Gendry!” She grabbed him in a death claw grip with both shoulders, trying to shake him out of his stupor without reinjuring him. “I was going to be safe…”

“That ice spider was going to kill you if I didn’t do something, and I wasn’t going to let that happen to someone I love,” Gendry cut in. His words froze her in stunned disbelief, still clutching onto his shoulders. “I’ve loved you since before I knew what that meant, but I thought I didn’t know how to say it to you. I thought I… didn’t have the proper words for it, my tongue would get all clumsy when I tried. I should have just said it, like you did.”

She half-laughed, half cried at his revelation, remembering. “You heard that, on the wall? When you passed out?”

“Gods, probably your ancestors in those bloody crypts heard you screaming it as loud as you were.”

She chuckled at first, but then she turned somber. “I thought it wouldn’t hurt as much if I didn’t admit it, that if you died, I wouldn’t hurt like it did seeing my father beheaded. But I was wrong, Gendry. I almost felt like I wanted to die myself. I guess you fall in love even if you don’t admit it.”

His thumb stroked her face near her blackened eye, brushing away a tear. “I’m sorry I frightened you, Arry.”

“I know. And… I know why you did it. I’d have done it myself, if I was in your place.”

Gendry looked around the room for the first time. “Where am I?”

“My room. I had the maesters bring you here and get treated.”

If Arya wasn’t holding onto him, she thought he might have flown right out of bed. “Your room? Seven Hells, your brother must be ready to geld me or put my head on a pike…”

“He’s going to do no such thing,” Arya said nonchalantly, pushing him down into the bed. “He knows about us now… now wait a minute,” she insisted, keeping him from rising again, “but even if he wanted to do something about it, he’d have to get through _me_ first, and I wouldn’t allow it. Since I guess I truly love you, I wouldn’t let anyone take you away from me, King of the North or High King of Westeros or whatever.”

Gendry looked around the room, and then narrowed his eyes as he stared at Arya. “He doesn’t know I’m _here_, though, does he?”

She shrugged at that. “Likely with getting all of the bodies left over from the Long Night ready to burn and getting things sorted out for the march south, he hasn’t had time to notice. And, apparently Daenerys is going to have a baby, so that’s been on his mind.”

“Congratulations, Auntie Arry,” Gendry said.

She stared off into the fire in the hearth for a moment. “I was going to be an aunt before, because Robb’s new wife was going to have a child…” she trailed off, shaking her head. “Anyway, I never met her.”

“I know that feeling, not getting to know family.” Arya tried but couldn’t escape Gendry’s ice-hot stare as he took her shoulders in his own hands. “So, everyone knows that you love me. It’s no longer a secret anymore, is it?”

“Yes, everyone knows now, Gendry…” she began to scoff.

“Really?”

“Yeah, it’s true.”

“Willing to prove you don’t care _who_ knows about us?”

”Absolutely,” Arya replied, all puffed up with her reserves of bravado ready.

“All right. Get out of this bed and stand over there.” After a few moments of inaction, he insisted, “Go on, do it.”

Wordlessly, she shuffled out of bed and stood next to her side of the bed. “What do you want…?”

“Take off your shift, right now. Hold it in your hand when you’re done,” Gendry said in a voice that sounded almost like a command.

With only a moment’s hesitation, she reached down and grasped the hem of her shift, lifting it up over her head. As she stood there, holding it in her left hand, she saw how Gendry’s eyes were glued to her body, illuminated by the light of the hearth. “Now what?” she whispered.

He leaned over the bed and took the shift from her hand. To her shock and somewhat horror, she saw him then swing his legs over the other side of his bed and attempt to stand up. “Gendry… Bull…”

“I’m fine,” he insisted as he raised himself up on his feet. After a pause to assure himself of his sturdiness, he slowly made his way around the bed. Even under the bandages, she could see the smooth movement of the muscles in his back, legs, and backside, and a newly familiar stirring started to fan out from her core. _I don’t think I could get my arms all the way around those shoulders of his_, she thought.

He opened the door to her room without a word. Taking her shift, he gently hung it over the outside doorknob, then he threw the door closed and slid its locking bar secure.

“What in Seven Hells…” she said as he stepped up to Arya. He loomed over her, lit by the hearth to look so imposing that she idily thought that he might have giant’s blood far back in his ancestry.

Her words caught in her throat as Gendry stared down at her, his bright blue eyes blazing. She had seen him in the past lose his temper, getting riled up at accumulated slights, but this intensity was something completely foreign to her. Any hint of the doubt and deference that had marked him as a young smith’s apprentice and bastard had vanished into thin air, leaving a young man burning to assert himself.

“You weren’t the only one suffering. I though I had lost you as well when everything went black.” Her face felt like it was almost masked by his huge hands as they cradled her jawline. “I spent my entire life being put in my place, always wondering whether I was worthy of anything, then whether I was worthy of you. But I don’t care anymore whether this is proper or not. I want everyone in this castle to know I am yours.” He bent down to her. "And you are _mine_,” he grunted.

There was the faintest taste of blood as they kissed from her split lip, but she ignored it as her tongue invaded his mouth, probing and teasing. She felt Gendry’s injured left arm encircling her shoulders and his right hand taking a firm grasp of her ass. There was a surge of wetness between her legs and she realized what was going to happen, what she wanted to happen then more than anything.

His eyes locked with hers. “I am making love to you tonight,” he growled at her. “I… _ohhh.”_

Arya had reached out with a lewd grin and cradled his cock with her left hand. He hadn’t been fully aroused when he had gotten out of bed, but as soon as her fingers drifted up and down his delicious length, he was iron-hard within a few moments. “You were saying, Bull? Are you ready?” she breathed more than spoke. “Let me show you how ready _I_ am.”

She felt herself being lifted into his arms as easily as one might lift a babe. Her own arms encircled his neck and her lips crashing into his as she pulled him to her. “I’m ready for you_._” She attacked the right side of his neck with her mouth, sucking and biting it, finally letting go with a big _pop_ and leaving a massive red welt. “I’ll follow you anywhere.”

“I’d die for you,” Gendry breathed.

“Fuck’s sake, don’t do that,” Arya half-hissed, half-cackled. “I want you living.” She attacked his neck again, then found herself flipped onto the bed, landing on her belly. _Showing off how strong he is, obviously, _she thought, not sure of what he was trying to do…

“What… _Fucking Gods!”_ she screamed as she felt Gendry’s mouth on her right buttock, _feeding_ on it - there was not another way to describe it as his teeth sank into her flesh and she felt his tongue glide over her. “Oh, oh…”

After an intense few moments of pain mixed with uncertain pleasure, he finally broke off and rolled Arya over on her back, her stormy grey eyes glowering at him. “What the hell, you stupid bull?”

“As much as you like to roughhouse,” Gendry laughed, “I thought you might enjoy it.”

“Are you ki… OK. I liked it some,” she admitted, scowling at Gendry and trying to look fierce but failing spectacularly. “What are you…?”

She felt Gendry’s dark head dart between her legs, using each of his massive hands to cradle her legs on either side of his head and his mouth fasten onto her flower, his tongue probing inside. “What…?”

“The Lord’s Kiss, my love,” Gendry said between kisses. “Thought it might be something you like.” Before she could respond, he said, “Lean back and enjoy yourself for once.” Then he found her nub, at the top of her center, and began sucking on it, and she lay back and lost the ability to try and debate the situation, letting the sensations wash over her and her hands grasping at the furs. “Why…?”

“Because I want to do this for you,” Gendry said, distributing kisses along her inner thighs when he wasn’t lavishing attention to her center, her pussy. “I want you to be happy.”

She was going to respond, but the sensations and Gendry’s arms pinned her to the bed and left her speechless. After what seemed to be almost an hour, she felt a surge of wetness between her legs that had not come from Gendry’s mouth, an overflowing tension that tore a scream from her throat as the orgasm washed over her, leaving her writhing in place.

It was lovely, but… she saw Gendry’s hardened, muscular back, his heavy rump flexing and just as toned as his upper body, and she couldn’t just lie there like that. She cradled Gendry’s head on both sides and pulled him up to where she could lock eyes with him. “That was all lovely,” she said, “but I want you inside me. I love how it feels when you’re in me… _oh, FUCK!”_

Without ceremony, Gendry took himself in one hand and eased himself into her center, taking his time as he felt her expand to meet him until he was fully, deliciously sheathed. _“Gods_, it feels… _amazing. _You feel so good, Arry, so perfect.”

She pulled him up to face her. “Look at me.”

His blue eyes met her grey ones, and he framed her face with his hands again. “I love you, and only you,” he said as he rocked into her, Arya’s hips cradling his as he found a rhythm. “No one else.” He pinned her arms above her head for a moment, covering her lips and neck with kisses, leaving his own red marks on the latter. He moaned as Arya wrapped her legs around his waist, just barely encircling them by locking her ankles together. 

“You love me?” she said, now moving to meet him, and with shivering hands clawing at his back and buttocks as the waves of pleasure began to wash over her, gradually more intense with each wave.

“You and no other,” huffed Gendry, the pace and depth of his thrusts increasing.

She opened her mouth to say something clever, but the waves of pleasure overwhelmed her as she felt herself spasm around him and her hands and legs tighten their grip. _“I love you,”_ she screamed as he sped up. “Oh! Yes…”

Desperate now for his own release and despite the burning feeling across his back and shoulders, Gendry did not break eye contact with her for a moment. _“Oh, Arry,”_ he moaned as felt himself spend into her, his shoulders shuddering.

Afterwards, the only sound was the two of them attempting to catch their breaths after such an effort. He lay on top of her for a while, and she didn’t even mind the weight, although Gendry had braced himself with his elbows to take a good portion of it off her. They were staring into each other’s eyes, Gendry’s so wide, and he sported such a goofy, relieved grin that she thought of kidding him about it, but she could tell that she was making the same grin at him from how he gingerly traced the line of her mouth with his fingers. _Probably thinking that I’m making moony eyes at him again,_ she thought, even though she admitted to herself that was exactly what she was doing.

After a long silence, Gendry finally broke it. “I’m guessing the whole castle heard that,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone.

She brought a finger up to his chin, her eyes now sober. “Look, Bull… you know me, better than almost anyone. You know I still want to do what I want and go where I want, but I don’t want to run away from this anymore. It’s too important to me… _you’re_ too important to me.”

“I’ll follow you wherever, it doesn’t matter,” he replied. “Whatever you want to call this, I’ll accept it as long as we’re together. I’ve got no pride anymore when it comes to you, Arry.”

He eased his hips off hers and started to shift to the other side of the bed. Arya gasped as she saw the red streaks across his shoulders and back. “Gods, Bull, I’m so sorry,” Arya gasped, reaching over and brushing her fingertips across them.

“S’all right.” As he turned himself to face her, she saw his face and upper chest turning red with embarrassment. “It felt good when you were doing it to me,” he whispered just for her ears.

“I know the feeling,” she whispered back, touching first the line of red marks he’d left across the right side of her neck and then the bright red circle on her rear. “S’all right.”

She tucked her head into his chest, where it seemed to fit so well when they lay down together, and he wrapped his arms around hers after pulling the furs over their bodies. For once, Arya didn’t have a reason to stop smiling. After so long of not feeling anything, now she felt truly like she was one of the living. And that evening, for the first time in her recent memories, no nightmares came to visit.

#

It was the three knocks on the door that roused her. As she pried her eyes open, she heard the muffled voice of Jon call out, “Arya? You up?”

In her training as a Faceless Man, she had learned and practiced the art of waking up quickly as to thwart stealthy attackers or fellow assassins. She’d never thought that she would be using it in these circumstances, but life was always a surprise, she guessed.

Within a split second, she’d assessed the situation. The sun was well above the horizon through her room’s window. She was lying on the bed stomach-first, totally bare and with her chestnut hair flying every which way. Gendry was on his back, also bare except for the furs, still sound asleep. Her shift was in the hallway, where her brother was calling for her.

Arya smacked Gendry on his right shoulder, avoiding his main stab wound but landing on a couple of scratches made the previous night. “Wake up!” she hissed as she threw the furs off her.

_“Ow,” _Gendry said, “what…?”

“Jon’s outside!” She sprinted to where she’d put his clothes that she’d taken from his room in the smithy. Arya threw him a pair of his trousers. “Get this on.”

There were another three knocks. “Arya, you awake?”

“Just a minute, Jon!” she called out. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Gendry getting dressed but with eyes only for her naked form.

“No time now for that!” she hissed at him. As he got his pants on, Arya suddenly grabbed one of Gendry’s dark work tunics. She slid it over her head, grateful that it reached below her bottom.

_“I’ll_ talk to him, you just keep quiet,” she said as she approached the door and unlatched it.

The door swung open and revealed the proclaimed King… and Queen of Westeros, standing side by side. Both were dressed as if they planned to attend court, with Jon in an elegant black tunic, trousers and leather boots, with the red three-headed dragon symbol splashed across his chest in a bit of intricate embroidery. Arya took it as a good sign that Longclaw was nowhere to be seen. Daenerys wore one of her white long-sleeved dresses with fur trim and red accents, her silver hair as exquisitely braided down her back as Arya’s chestnut hair flew around her head in chaos.

“Jon, Yo… Daenerys, good morning.” Arya had tried to sound nonchalant, but her voice had almost come out as a squeak.

Jon looked at Gendry in his sister’s bed as Daenerys peered with curiosity at the shift hung on the outer doorknob. “Good morning, Sister,” he said. “Could we talk for a moment?”

“Of course, come in.” Arya’s voice was a bit steadier now as she welcomed them in and tried to finger-comb her tresses into some sort of order.

Arya could tell Gendry’s nerves were on end as he straightened up into a seated position in bed. “Jon, I…”

“It’s OK – no need to explain,” he replied in a soft voice. “Arya told me about… the two of you during the battle.”

Arya padded over to where Gendry sat and took his hand. “I’m not going to get rid of him. Don’t even bother asking…”

“I’m not getting rid of her, either,” Gendry said as he got up out of bed. He switched her hand into his other one as he draped an arm across her shoulders. “We’re with each other, whatever that looks like.”

It was just a moment, but Arya saw Jon look upward to meet Gendry’s glare. Her lover was at least two heads taller than her brother, and blessed with far more dense muscle and bulk. She would say Jon could defeat almost anyone in a melee, but unarmed, and even with his injuries, she’d be tempted to give Gendry an advantage…

“Of course, you’re not,” Jon said softly, shaking his head. “It’s all right. You two love each other, it’s obvious.”

“Ho…?” Arya began.

“The first instinct of both of you was to protect each other,” Jon said, pointing to them. “Like I said, it’s obvious.”

“You can fuss over your sister later,” Daenerys said. “Arya, I wanted to talk with Gendry about something Jon and I wanted to give him.”

“What was that?” Gendry said.

Daenerys first moved to the couple and laid her hand over Gendry and Arya’s clasped hands. “First, let me say how glad I am that you are well, Cousin.”

Gendry’s brow knit at the last word. “Pardon, Your Grace?”

Daenerys realized why he was puzzled. “Apologies, Gendry. I don’t know how much you know about your family’s history.”

“Not much, to be honest, just the stories I’ve heard of my father. Part of it is I haven’t yet learned to read or write.”

“That’s nothing, you can learn to do that,” Arya said, voice fierce, as she encircled Gendry’s waist with her other arm. “Ser Davos learned to do it, you could too. Seven Hells, _I’d_ even teach you if you needed… I’d probably be horrible at it…”

Daenerys reassured her with a pat on the shoulder. “You are cleverer than you give yourself credit for, Goodsister.” She turned to Gendry. “In short, one of your great-grandmothers on your father’s side of your family is my great aunt. So, we would be… second cousins, once removed… yes, I think that is the proper term for it.” She waved at Jon. “Technically, Jon would be your third cousin, Gendry.”

“Thanks for explaining that, Daenerys,” Arya said, “but you said you had something to give Gendry.”

“Yes, of course.” Daenerys said. She came to stand directly in front of Arya as Jon stepped up to stand in front of Gendry. “Gendry, you helped to arm us against the Night King’s army. Without your work, many more of my men would be lying dead in the burial pyres outside of Winterfell, I am sure.”

Gendry was stunned to see tears starting to pool in the corners of Jon’s eyes. “You saved my sister’s life that night. I know it wasn’t the first time you did that. And it was your armor that helped protect Dany from even more harm. I… I can never repay you for all you’ve done.” He reached up and embraced Gendry, his arms reaching around the taller man’s neck.

Gendry was struck dumb for a moment, but then finally replied, “It was my honor, Jon.”

As Jon nodded in response after they separated, Daenerys continued. “With you being the last known man of Baratheon blood still living, it is only right that you should have your father’s name. And it should also be right that you would inherit Storm’s End and the lordship there. Gendry, I would wish to make you…”

“Wait, wait,” Gendry interrupted, letting go of Arya’s hand and holding up his palm to halt her words. “You… Daenerys, could you wait to do that? I… need to talk to Arya about it, see how she feels. I don’t want to do something big like that without her blessing.”

Arya saw Daenerys’ jaw not clench with irritation, but drop in shock. _The Usurper’s son turning _down_ a castle,_ she thought. _She probably can’t believe it_.

“I’ve not known too many men who would so easily turn down a lordship, or a castle,” Daenerys finally said.

“Beg your pardon, Daenerys, but I never had a castle and I never was a lord,” Gendry said, then turned to Jon. “I do have your sister… sister’s favor, and I know how special that is. I don’t want to lose that over something that doesn’t matter to me. Whatever we call this,” he said, pointing to Arya, “I’ll choose it over a castle if I have to make that choice anytime.”

Arya turned her head to face Gendry as he spoke and felt herself starting to shiver as he continued. _I was so afraid of being trapped by him, I didn’t think it through and realize he wasn’t that type of man. Like Joffrey, Littlefinger, or… his father. I was so stupid…_

“I know maybe people might look at us, see my father and her aunt, think some disaster or war will happen,” Gendry continued. “I might look like King Robert did and have his temper, but… I’ve tried to be a better man. I know Arya loves me too, it’s not like it was with them.”

Then he turned to Daenerys, blue eyes suddenly boring straight through the unexpecting Dragon Queen. “Arya told me you asked Jon if I was like Robert in other ways. You wonder if I would start a war for this woman? The Gods know that I _would.”_

Arya’s hand flew to her mouth to stifle a sob. With her other arm she hugged her chest, willing herself desperately to not suddenly break down right in front of everyone. She uncovered her mouth to take Gendry’s hand only when she felt secure in her voice enough to speak, her own grey eyes focused on him and nobody else in the room.

“I would wage war by your side,” Arya croaked more than spoke, “no matter who we faced.”

His eyes were brimming with as many tears as she felt were in her own, but a smile crept over his face. “There you go with those moony eyes again, Arry,” he whispered.

“Shut up, you stupid… Gods, Bull,” she sobbed.

She flung herself into his arms, into his kiss. She let him pull her up, feet well off the ground, as he held her close. She let herself sob because it was ok, they were crying together through their kisses but they knew it was all right.

She didn’t know how long they were like that until they heard Daenerys cough in front of them. As Gendry let her down but still with his arms around her, they saw the royal couple, clearly moved at the sight in front of them, staring at them and holding each other’s hand.

“You’ve got much to talk about, and likely need some rest,” Daenerys said, smiling. “We’ll give you some time alone, and we can talk about it later.”

“Before we get to Harrenhal, right?” Arya whispered.

“Yes,” Jon said. “There’s time enough to consider…”

“Can you give him his name, at least?” Arya said, voice shaking. “He’s nearly died enough times because he was Robert’s son, he deserves the name, at least.”

Daenerys stepped up to Gendry and reached up to gingerly put her hand on his unbandaged shoulder. “You are Gendry Baratheon,” she said.

Gendry looked at her, Jon, Arya, and back to Daenerys, puzzled. “Wait. That’s it?”

She nodded and smiled, patting him on the shoulder. “Family privilege, Cousin.” She gently pulled Gendry down so she could give him a kiss on the cheek. “Congratulations.”

As soon as Gendry stood up, Arya flew in and wrapped her up in her own hug, trying to avoid squeezing her midriff. “Thank you! Thank you,” she whispered to her.

“No thanks are needed,” Daenerys replied, kissing Arya on the forehead. “We’ll let you rest now.”

Arya then rushed to Jon, who gratefully returned his sister’s hug. “I’m happy for you,” he whispered to her. After they let go, Jon reached over so he could shake his hand. “I’m happy for both of you.”

The royal couple left her and Gendry embracing each other in disbelief over what had just happened.

#

**Jon**

“How long do you think it will be before he asks for my blessing to get married?” he said to Dany as they walked back to their chambers. _Another duty I inherited from Father, _he thought.

“Are you kidding, Jon?” Dany replied, giggling. “They basically said their vows right there in front of us.”

“It’s not like a septon was there or they were in front of a heart tree.”

“It was _their_ type of vows,” Dany replied, taking him by the arm. “Their relationship… is going to be quite different than most.”

“I know now he loves her,” Jon insisted, “I just want to make sure that whatever happens, she’s happy with it.”

“I get the feeling that is what they’re going to be negotiating in the near future.”

_“Negotiate,”_ Jon laughed. “I can picture _their _negotiation. Did you _see_ his back? For a moment I’d thought his old smith master had whipped him until I realized they were too fresh for that and small enough to match her hands…”

“He gives as good as he gets,” Daenerys said. “Did you see those love marks down the side of her throat? There was an _interesting_ mark that looked like a bite on…”

Jon put his hand up, trying to ward off the image. “Seven Hells, that’s _not_ something I need to know about my sister, thank you.”

“Like you don’t love leaving _those_ on me.” She looked up at him and started giggling next to him.

_“Anyway,” _he huffed, “we’ll hear from them soon enough.”

“Certainly,” she replied, giving her husband a hug around the waist as they continued down the hall.

#

**Arya**

After Jon and Daenerys left, Gendry picked her up in his arms again and lay her down on the bed. He settled in with her and pulled the furs over them both. “So, what do you think?”

She’d finally calmed down after the big emotional scene with Jon and Daenerys. She settled into his embrace, laying side by side, her looking up at him. “Would you ever be willing to ask me to marry you?”

_That_ caused him to catch his breath for a moment. “If I knew for sure you wouldn’t run screaming away from me, I’d ask you now.”

She laughed at that, the old vision she had of herself dashing away on horseback from a bridal party flashing before her now. “If you were going to offer me a marriage like the ones Sansa’s had before, or the one your father had with Cersei or wanted with my aunt – even my mother’s, I might.” She narrowed her grey eyes at his blue ones and found the same strength of intent there. “But you wouldn’t offer me that kind of marriage, would you? I get that now.”

“What would you _want_ it to be?” Gendry cupped one side of her face with his hand. “That’s what _I_ want. I’d want a marriage where we’d both be happy, where we’d both get what we’d want.”

“I… I guess we need to talk about it,” she said as she covered his hand with her own. “I need to say what I need and you do the same. It’s sort of scary when you think about it. It’s been a long time since I’ve needed to be honest with people, or that I _could_ be honest without getting hurt. Game of Faces and all that.”

“OK. What do you want to talk about first?”

She kissed his palm. “I think you’re going to have to accept Daenerys’ offer for Storm’s End, Gendry.”

_That_ surprised him. “You _want_ me to be a lord? I’m not going to be a proper lord.”

“I know, it’s… Look, I need to watch out for Jon and the rest of the family. Being a high lord and lady of one of the kingdoms would help with that. And I guess I’m basically their Mis…Minister of Whispers now.”

“How’d _that_ happen? I thought Lord Varys…?”

“Dead, thanks to the wights,” Arya said matter-of-factly. “I just… kind of took over.”

He chuckled at that. “I thought you wanted to run off into the forest, or sail off somewhere…”

“When I was a child, yes, but that’s changed,” she said, exasperated. “I’ve been with my pack and without it and trust me, it’s better with my pack nearby, protecting them. I don’t have to abandon everyone to just take a trip every now and then.”

“So, you want to stay here, and have me be a lord and you a lady, even though neither of us know how to be one, really, even if we wanted.”

“You’re right, we can’t,” she said. “But, we could be an _improper_ lord and lady. I told Father when I was a child that I wanted to be lord of a holdfast, but he said I’d just be the lord’s wife. If we ruled together… like Jon and Daenerys are doing… that’s something I’d be interested in.”

“OK, that’s a start, then.”

“And we’d have to talk about other things, but… if we work this out, I’ll marry you.”

Gendry beamed at her. “You wear whatever you want to the ceremony, as long as you’re there.”

Arya thought of her sister and made a slight sneer at the thought. “Sansa will likely want to make a dress for me… I’ll have to talk her out of it.”

It seemed like there was nothing that could wipe the grin off Gendry’s face. “So, this will make me pack, right?”

She paused at that. “You’re already pack.”

“How did that happen? You didn’t pee on me or anything…_ow!”_

“I _told_ you that was a joke!” Arya said, smacking him on the top of the head with a light slap.

“Then, how do you mark me?” Gendry said, continuing to chuckle.

She was about to smack him again, but then paused for a second, an idea slowly forming. Arya slid herself over to him and then threw her right leg over him so that she was straddling his stomach as he lay on his back. “What are you…?”

In a single motion, she lifted the tunic she’d borrowed from him and laid it next to his head. As his eyes were fixed on her now naked form, she reached down and put her left hand between her legs. “Arry? What are you doing…?”

“Shh, Bull,” she whispered, laying her right index finger on his lips. She withdrew her other hand. He saw the wetness from her on her fingers. Slowly, she reached down to the center of his chest and drew a line down across his breastbone.

When she’d done that, she leaned over him and whispered in his ear, “Now, you’re pack.”

He reached over with his arm and held her down as they exchanged one of the longest kisses she’d ever remembered getting from him. After he finally let her go, he asked. “So, how do I mark you as a member of _my_ pack?”

The question brought the devil out of her. With the widest of grins, she reached behind herself and began to fumble with the laces of his sleeping pants. “You know exactly how you do that.”

Jaw dropping in anticipation of what was coming next, Gendry reached up and cupped each of her breasts with his hands as she reached back to get him undressed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, that was a bit, wasn't it?
> 
> I would love to hear any comments or critiques of this scene. I'm on Reddit quite a bit (I'm u/librarysquatter on there), and one of the subreddits I scan periodically is r/menwritingwomen, where people post examples of how men often portray women in books, tv, films, and graphic novels in a way that is... pretty tone deaf. I might have written like that at times in some of my early writing experiments as a teen, but I am trying to make every effort to not write like those guys. For example, in this chapter, since it is Arya's POV, most of the physical descriptions center on what Gendry looks like rather than what she looks like. Basically, I'm trying to write respectful fluff and I'd appreciate any feedback on whether that's working.
> 
> Anyway, I'll get on with the next chapter soon - likely not tomorrow, but soon. One teaser/spoiler - the title of the chapter will be "Securing the North."
> 
> Take care.


	34. Securing the North

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dead are sent to their final rest. The royal couple reconnect. The Lady of Winterfell makes an important decision for herself and her soon-to-be kingdom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, and hello, again!
> 
> So, there's a funeral scene, a dinner, two instances of fluff, and one character's debut as a POV character. Enjoy.

34.

**Jon**

If you were far enough away from them, you could squint your eyes and make believe that they were merely soldiers on parade, ready for the morning drill. While they did not move, neither were they standing at attention. And, none of them breathed in the morning’s air.

The dead lay in ten massive rectangles arranged two by five on the snow and mud-covered open fields just east of Winterfell, the battered and burned palisades long since cleared away to make space for the bodies. Even with each individual rectangle covering hundreds of square meters, the dead were still stacked up in each of the formations at least six people high, along with whatever spare wood and accelerants to get the fires to come burning. Jon was frankly amazed that it had taken less than a week to gather all the dead for what was about to take place.

Jon looked around at the crowd around the eastern wall of Winterfell. Many of what he now thought of as the Dragon Army were there to see their comrades off. Many were busy in forges repairing and crafting weapons and armor, much of it salvaged from the dead and the Others. There were others harvesting trees and quarrying nearby granite for repairs to the castle and winter town. So much had been done, yet there was so much more to do before they could move against Cersei. He was flanked by just his sisters – Bran was still unconscious after several days and Daenerys was laying low to recover her health and fool those birds loyal to Cersei and her hand Qyburn. Missandei and Grey Worm stood at the head of the Essoi soldiers off to the side.

As men and women near the piles began to light their torches, Jon moved forward to speak. “Men and women of the living, we honor those who lie before us today,” he said, his baritone voice with Northern brogue ringing across the plains to the east. “Before us, we have our grandfathers and grandmothers, fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters, sons and daughters, grandsons and granddaughters, friends and comrades. All of them fell defending _us. _They fell defending us and the race of men, so that we could live on even if they did not. It was here that they served as the shields that guarded the race of men, on its darkest night.

“There are many, who were not here on that night, that may not believe the horrors we faced and what those who lie before us sacrificed,” he continued. “It does not matter. The memories of those deeds, and the love we have for the men and women who committed them, reside in all of us. That is why they will never be truly gone, and why we will never forget the time when the living of all kinds came together to defend against the dead.

“We honor them, but as we do that, spare a thought and prayer for those corrupted by the magic of the Others,” he continued. “They have been long dead, their names forgotten, their loved ones unknown or long gone into the next world. They were used against their will to attack us, but now they know true peace. As do those we cherish.”

With a nod from him, Jon, his sisters, and other volunteers grabbed their lit torches and made their way to the piles. As he approached the pile of corpses in front of him, he saw Ser Jorah, who had saved his wife and unborn child or children, and the already charred corpse of Melisandre, whom he despised and feared but still had to thank for his life. To his left, he saw Sansa stare at the corpse of Lord Varys, someone who perhaps reminded her of her days in captivity in King’s Landing. To his right, Arya stared at the body of Ser Beric Dondarrion, whom she had once vowed to kill but let live, allowing him to help save her brother’s life.

“Now,” he called out. With that word, he and the others wielding torches stuck them into prepared areas of the piles to allow them to burn freely, with plenty of air to circulate around and fuel to feed the fires.

Arya and Sansa returned to flank him as he stared at the growing fires. “Your plans in place?” Jon said to Arya, careful of any stray ears.

Arya nodded. The abrasions and bruising on her face were just beginning to fade. “The Spider’s birds here among our army are already under control thanks to coin and… my persuasion,” she said. “We’ll make our move soon.”

“Good,” Jon said with a nod.

“Jon? Could I talk with you later today?” Sansa said. “I know you might be busy…”

“No, it would be no problem,” he said. “Would you like to join Dany and I for dinner tonight in the small dining hall?” That room had been where Lord and Lady Stark typically had dinner with their children when it was just them eating.

  
“Of course, that would be fine,” Sansa replied.

“How about you?” he asked Arya.

She shook her head. “I’ve got some things to take care of, and then I wanted to head out to the forge.”

He chuckled at that. “Your beloved putting you to work?”

“No, he wanted me to help start learning how to read when he’s not trying to get everyone’s armor and weapons repaired.” She looked up at him. “Plus, we still have some things to talk over.”

He nodded. “Fair enough.”

#

The system of hot springs helped to heat the entire castle of Winterfell, but what was not well-known was the fact that in the basement of the Great Keep, there was a large bathhouse for its residents, with several hot pools. Many a time had Jon gone down there to wash off the stench of a long day of work or warm up during a cold day. There were more than a few times, especially at night, that he’d gone down there to find Robb or Theon tarrying with young ladies who were willing to get undressed for the occasion… and much more.

He’d told Dany about the baths shortly after she’d arrived at Winterfell, and she had taken advantage of them once or twice since that time. So, it was not a surprise that Missandei told him that she’d gone down there for a bath shortly before he’d finished with the funeral ceremony.

Striding down the steps, he found Dany sprawled out in one corner of the largest bath, shoulder deep in the steaming water, with a robe and slippers tossed to the side of the bath. “Husband, good to see you,” she half-japed as she saw him come down the stairwell. “Did the ceremony go well? I was sorry to miss it, but with our plans… anyway, I was glad Samwell brought Ser Jorah’s body to me before it went to the funeral pyre,” she said wistfully as she sank down to her neck in the bath.

“All went well,” Jon said as he walked toward the edge of the pool. “With the bodies burned up, we’ve at least taken care of a potential health hazard. Now, we’ll be just as busy with the rest of the rebuilding and refitting we need to do.”

She was on the right side of the bath next to the near side where Jon was. Looking up at him, she said, “I have to say that you are looking quite handsome today, Jon.”

He let out a snort and half-laugh as he looked down at himself. “Aye, maybe I’m beginning to get used to dressing like a dragonlord,” he said. He was wearing a black leather coat with the red Targaryen sigil splashed across his chest and two direwolf sigils on either shoulder. He was also making more use of red generally in his wardrobe, including a new crimson cloak he’d worn at the ceremony.

“Would you care to join me for a bath, Jon?” Dany asked innocently.

“Would you be up for company, then, lass?” Jon replied.

“I’d be up for plenty now, I think,” she said, violet eye twinkling at him from below.

There was no more need to convince Jon of his next move. Coat, tunic, boots, trousers, and smallclothes were soon on a haphazard pile next to the edge of the bath. He stepped gingerly down the stone step into the bath as the heat hit him.

  
“A dragon does not burn,” she laughed.

“Well, he might get overheated sometimes,” Jon said, making it to the bottom of the pool.

He drifted over to where Dany was, leaning down to kiss her. She returned the kiss, then she placed her own on the scar above his heart, but she remained submerged in the water. Jon sat next to her on the ledge underwater along the edge of the pool. “Dany, is everything all right?”

“Well, I am feeling much better,” Dany said. “The headaches have just about gone away, but I’m feeling a bit… self-conscious.”

“About what, love?” He laid his hands on her shoulders, trying to reassure her.

She closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. “Since we found out, I’ve been noticing some… changes in how I look,” she said, staring up at him. “Things I might not have taken notice of before, but that seem obvious now. I guess I was worried that those changes might not be… to your liking.”

Jon snorted in disbelief. “Really? Oh, Dany, love…” He embraced her and kissed her on the forehead. “I’d have to be an idiot if I thought like that. This is my fault you’re in this condition, for one thing.” They locked eyes for a moment, then dissolved into giggles for a while. He finally recovered himself as he maneuvered Dany to straddle his lap. “Dany, I know that it might be hard for you to talk about, but… was it like that with your first child?”

Her silver-blond brows knitted as she considered his question. He worried that he might have upset her, but instead she was more puzzled by it. “You know, I never really thought of that,” she said. “Drogo never really mentioned anything about how I changed. He was happy for the baby, of course, but… anyway, we continued having relations until the end, so I guess he didn’t mind much.”

“Well, good news for us, at least,” he chuckled. “Dany? Can you… show me?”

Uncertain at first, slowly she unfolded herself from her crouch until her breasts surfaced from the water. She took his hands and placed them over them. “They’re a bit bigger than they used to be – not by much, but a little. They’ll get bigger than that before they’re done. Notice how these are a darker pink, now?” she said, pointing his hand to one of her nipples. “That happens, too.”

She took another hand and slid it down to her lower belly. It still felt trim as usual, but there was an unfamiliar firmness there he didn’t expect. “There now, Poppa. Meet your children.”

He couldn’t keep himself from grinning. “You’re convinced we’re having twins, then?”

“I don’t know… just a feeling. I sensed I was going to have a boy the first time, so I think this is the same thing. We’ll just have to see.”

“’We’ll just have to see,’” he huffed, shaking his head as Dany looked like she had a great big secret. _What is she… _“You’ve already picked out names, haven’t you? Well, come on, out with it.”

She leaned down and whispered them into his ear. “Do you like them?” she asked hopefully, openly wanting his approval.

“Aye,” he said in pure wonder. “That’d be grand.”

“I’m glad. Gods, this is a wonder… you’ve made me so happy. Wait a minute,” she said, then seemingly out of nowhere she swatted him on the back of the head.

“Hey!” Jon exclaimed, more out of shock than pain, “What was that for?”

With a devilish grin, she pointed her finger directly over his heart. _“You_ should know that a king that does not keep his promises is an unworthy king, Your Grace.”

“What are you on about…?” Jon laughed.

“My king promised me he was going to remind me of how I found myself to be in this condition,” Dany giggled. “I await Your Grace’s response.”

She squealed in surprise as Jon grabbed her by the hips and threw her up so far into the air that her bottom almost broke the surface. He caught her under her armpits and spun them around until they made their way to the stone entry steps. He laid her down so her shoulders rested on one of the steps above water, and started suckling her left breast as he held her.

“Careful, those are a bit more sensitive,” Dany chuckled. “Playing with them requires… a bit more subtlety now. But it does feel grand.”

“Whatever My Queen asks for,” he grinned.

After a few minutes of foreplay, he grabbed hold of both her legs and threw them over her shoulders. “Why do I get the feeling that you’ve done this here with some maiden befo… Ohhhhhhh,” she moaned as his full length slid into her, reaching deep with her legs positioned as they were.

“Not me, My Queen, although I did catch my brother and Theon Greyjoy in here more than once in a similar position.”

“Oh, this is good… I missed this,” she breathed as Jon started to pick up the pace. “It feels like you missed this, too.”

“Aye, I did,” Jon grunted. “Don’t know… how long I’ll last…”

“Tonight, after dinner, how about we sneak out and go to the hot spring cave?” she said. “We can check up on the dragons, get in more… bath time, and help your sister’s scheme by keeping me out of sight.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Jon said. His breaths got ragged and he began shaking as he thrust into her. “Gods, I’m already going to spend…”

“Oh, oh, yes, I’m coming too,” she moaned, feeling the pulse of her walls around him as his seed leaked from her.

Still inside her, he let down her legs so they could wrap around his waist. He pulled her to him and stood up in the bath, his mouth sucking on the left side of her neck and immediately leaving a pink mark. “Was this the reminder you needed, My Queen?” he said.

Her goofy grin matched the one he was sure he had. “I’ll likely need some more before the night is done, but… it’s a start.” They kissed and floated like that for some time afterward.

#

**Sansa**

“Dinner to your liking?” she heard.

Sansa looked down at her plate. They were having roast pork garnished with mushroom, pork gravy, onions, and spices from the wolfswood. “It’s quite good, to be honest,” she said as she took another sip of her heated red wine.

“So, it appears that your repair plans for the outer wall and the winter town seem to be progressing,” Daenerys said as she and Jon dined across the table from Sansa. She only had a small proportion of pork on her plate, preferring to load up with more of the mild leeks, mushrooms, small roasted gourds, and mashed potatoes, a slight concession to her appetite.

Sansa nodded. “Those will be the priorities for us, as will be the gates to the west and north,” she said. “Especially the winter town – even though many in the North have lost their lives to the Others, there will be those who wish to have a place to wait out the winter. Even some of those in Dragonstone now might want to return there.”

“Yes,” Daenerys replied. “However, you said there will be more things after that, such as repairing the First Keep and Broken Tower.”

“It’s just the start,” Sansa said, knitting her brow before taking another bite. “I mean, the more I look around the North, the more I see things that need to be done, things that have either been neglected or forgotten about over time.”

“Like what, Goodsister?”

“The more I think about it, the more I see,” Sansa said. “For example, we have paved roads in cities like King’s Landing and White Harbor, but there are no paved roads _between _cities even after hundreds of years since the first invasion by the Andals, much less the Targaryen invasion. Is it not time for that?”

“You mean, all of the roads in the country should be paved?” chuckled Jon. “That’s a lot of roads… and a lot of dispute toward what needs to be done.”

“Not every road, but the Kingsroad, surely?” Sansa said. “The Goldroad and River Road, the major ones. It would make them more usable, able to carry more people. In the North, we certainly have more need for any type roads running west to east, especially ones that connect the Sunset Sea to the Shivering Sea. Also, why aren’t there any good ports on the Sunset Sea like with White Harbor? There’s so much that needs to get done…” She trailed off once she saw Jon grinning from ear to ear at her from across the table. “What?”

“Sweet Sister, I knew there was a reason I wanted you to succeed me as King in the North,” he said quietly, his pride in her evident. “Father would have been proud beyond belief to see you make this land greater than ever.”

The mention of their father brought her up short – _It will always ache _– and she had to look down for a moment. “Thank you.”

“Jon would surly be willing to give whatever aid might help you, Sansa, regarding these plans,” Daenerys said, “but I wish to do the same.”

“Oh, please do not think I would not be willing to do the same for both of you,” Sansa replied. “Our resources may be limited, but know I will be willing to come to your aid when called.”

“For right now, your counsel might be the most useful to us,” Daenerys said with a small smile. “We’ve solved the situation regarding who will rule in the North, but the issue of New Valyria is one that is much more complex. We certainly would not be able to directly rule over that much territory and people from across the Narrow Sea, so there must be some… structure for local rule under the control of the High Kingdom.”

Missandei and Grey Worm came to Sansa’s mind as she listened to the problem. “I would be happy to talk with you about that, give any advice I might have.”

“You have my thanks,” Daenerys said. “Sansa… you said there was a reason you wished to join us for dinner this evening?”

“What? Oh, yes,” she said, shaking her head at getting off-track for a moment. “I wanted to get your advice regarding some of my other plans related to my future as queen. And, likely, I would want to get your blessing, as well.”

Jon took a long sip of his wine and set down his fork, grey eyes twinkling. “I’d love to hear it.”

#

**Joren**

He was grateful for the end of the fever, at least.

He’d managed to rise from his bed – _Sansa’s bed, _he thought idly – about two days ago still shivering and sweating from the fever an infection had brought on. The wounds on his back were now a dull, itching ache, and the maesters had gotten him fresh dressings. Joren was seated in a large stuffed armchair placed next to the fireplace, a quilt wrapped around him. He was dressed in a grey cotton tunic and linen trousers, with thick wool socks protecting his feet.

In his hands were two letters he’d received that morning from Sansa, who said that they’d come by raven from White Harbor. The first was a note from Lord Wyman explaining that he’d made sure to pass along the second letter to Joren. Sansa, who had read the second letter, had given him privacy to read it after surprising him with a hug. In the time since, he must have read the letter a dozen times.

My Son,

If you are reading this letter now, it means that I have succumbed to my illness. This was not unexpected for me, but perhaps earlier than I’d thought. It makes no real difference.

I hope that you are still among the living. I regret that I can offer you no more of an inheritance or legacy than what I have taught you during our lives together. That inheritance must go to your brothers, as you know.

It was because of this that I was heartened to read the letter you sent to me a week prior, with your request to join the service of House Stark. It appears you have once again created your own opportunity through your good works. I give my blessing to you. Do not bother asking your brothers for permission, though I doubt they would not give it.

If you live, Son, please go forward and build a good life for yourself. Do not mourn me, for I will be joining those I loved in the next life, including your mother. I am proud of the man you have become, and your mother would be too.

Love,

Father

He’d finished shedding what tears he had for his father by the time a servant had brought up some potato and onion soup for dinner.

_Mother, Lilly, Anna, and now Father. This might be the most alone I have ever felt. _In the letter from Lord Wyman, it said that his brothers Donnel and Artos were accompanying The Flint’s body back to The Flintwatch, the family’s keep in the Northern Mountains. The only message they passed along was for any of their house’s men not wounded and unable to travel should return to The Flintwatch. Donnel and Artos might spare a thought for him, but not much else at this point.

“Ser Joren? Have you eaten yet?” he heard from behind him.

He couldn’t quite turn around in his chair easily given his wounds, but he recognized the voice. “Thank you, My Lady, but I have,” pointing to the empty bowl on a small nearby table.

“And you have made yourself at home at last, I see,” Lady Sansa quietly japed at him.

He stirred uncomfortably in his seat. “My Lady, I did not mean to impose…”

“Relax,” she said, patting him on the shoulder before going to put away the bowl. “You are still trying to recover yourself; I would not expect you to tidy up such things.”

“Well, I thank you, even though your words certainly hold truth,” he said as he lowered his head and scratched his beard. “If I have any home now, it would be here.”

He heard Sansa come up behind him again. To his shock, he felt her massage the back of his neck with a single hand. “I apologize, Ser. I need to be more aware of… well, everything you might be feeling now. What you have lost, I freely give my condolences.”

“Thank you,” he said, his breath quickening. He had no idea how to react; there was never a time in his life when any highborn woman had ever been this _forward_ with him. Joren had no idea what was going on.

She came around the chair so that Joren could see her. She was wearing a hunter-green fox fur-lined robe and clutching a heavy multi-colored patchwork quilt in her arms. There was another stuffed armchair facing him on the other side of the fireplace. Sansa took her seat there, spreading the quilt to cover her body from her armpits to her feet.

“Lord Samwell said that your wounds are healing well,” Sansa said, reaching over for a decanter of wine on a table next to her chair and one of a pair of goblets. “Care for some?”

“Why not? No, no, don’t get up, you appear quite cozy there,” he said, gesticulating for her to sit down. He went over to her and poured a glass first for her and then himself. He handed her glass to her and then sat down in his seat, taking his own sip. “Thank you. And yes, it appears I’ll be healing up, although with an interesting set of scars. Well, if I am to serve the direwolf, perhaps it makes sense to have its mark on me.” Chuckling, he took another sip before setting the goblet down at a similar table to hers.

“Yes, about that,” Sansa said, taking two long sips of her wine and setting the goblet on her table. She turned her face away for a moment as she stared into the fire. “I wished to talk about that tonight.”

He took in a deep breath as he considered her words. “You are reconsidering your offer to me?”

Sansa seemed shocked at his words. “No, no, not at all,” she said, her blue eyes lighting up to catch his gaze. “I definitely seek your service. However, the circumstances of that service are likely going to be _different _from what both you and I initially thought. I want you to be aware of that before we move forward.”

Joren felt himself relax the smallest bit and sink into his chair. “Well, as long as it means I’m not in charge of maintaining the toilets, I think I’d be open to it,” he japed. “Please, My Lady, continue.”

She nodded, relaxing herself in the chair and pulling the quilt tightly around her. “First, you should know that when Jon and Daenerys gather their forces at Harrenhal, they intend to declare themselves High King and Queen of Westeros. When that happens, Jon intends to abdicate his crown in the North in favor of me. I will be a vassel queen, but a queen nonetheless.”

“Yes, you had mentioned something of this yesterday to me. What does that make you now?”

She rolled her eyes at that. “My former husband, Lord Tyrion, is quite particular with his naming conventions,” she said. “Currently, I am Wardeness of the North as I would rule in Jon’s stead. Since I am Jon’s heir, I am apparently styled Crown Princess of the North as well.”

“Impressive.” It sounded part in jest when he said it, but he was sincere enough. By the firelight framing her oval face and red auburn hair flowing down her shoulders and back, unbound, she seemed so very young, vulnerable, only twenty. He saw that when she was with others, she carried herself with a solid reserve, a formal strength that seemed unflappable under stress. When it was just the two of them, however, she increasingly let down her guard.

“With that in mind, the priority for me, other than making sure the repairs here at Winterfell are well underway, is to eventually marry and… start giving birth to heirs.”

“That is what you want?”

She nodded. “I’ve always wanted children, more than just a couple of them,” she said, smoothing down the quilt across her lap. “I’m greatful that I did not have a child with my first two husbands, but now, that would be something I want. My mother…” She sighed as she looked over to the fireplace again. “There were times when she was an unhappy woman, but her children and family were always a joy for her, and she was a fine mother. I hope I could be as good as her.”

“Do you have any idea who you would wish to marry?” _Is she wishing me to advise her on _this? _Not the type of service I was expecting. _“Would you be seeking to make a marriage of alliance, perhaps?”

She chuckled as she turned to face him again. “My brother is soon to be High King, my uncle rules in the Riverlands and my cousin in the Vale, and, if rumors are true, my sister will soon be ruling in the Stormlands. I don’t believe I would require any further alliances.”

“Would you ever consider remarrying Lord Tyrion, My Lady? I know that he was forced upon you, but he seems to be a decent man…”

Sansa almost choked on another sip of wine. “Gods, no,” she said, laughing. “He is a decent and clever man, and we have become good friends, but… marriage wouldn’t work. Besides, he will have to live in King’s Landing and be Jon and Daenerys’ Hand, and I have no interest in living there, only to visit my family. I plan to stay in the North and have a Northern husband.”

“You plan to marry one of the Northern nobles, then? Which one?”

“That won’t work,” Sansa said. “As part of any marriage pact, I would insist that our children bear the Stark name. Most noblemen, especially those leading a house of their own, would balk at that. No, I think my potential husband would have to someone of more… humble station.”

“Like who?”

Sansa glared at him in disbelief. “I didn’t think you were this thick, Joren. Or, maybe it’s like my brother said to me, maybe bastards don’t ever think they deserve anything.” She took a deep breath before continuing. “I’m talking about you.”

In fact, he had suspected, but thought the idea such madness that he’d discounted it. Now that it had been put to him… _Gods, I can’t believe this. _“My Lady, I…”

“If you’ve received a marriage proposal from me and nearly lost your life to save mine, Joren, you should use my name when we are alone,” she said gently.

He ran both his hands through his hair before gripping the armrests on either side. “Of course… Sansa. Why, though?”

She set aside the quilt on her lap and stood up. Sansa padded toward him until she stood directly in front of him. “You are a good man, Joren. Someone I’ve gotten to know who is kind, thoughtful, and open to love. However, you are also a capable fighter and knowledgeable about many things. It’s a good combination. I will need a caring partner, yet one who can serve as my strong right arm.”

“Your henchman, you mean,” Joren replied with a wry smile.

“Yes,” she said plainly. “As I said before, I am not a warrior, and I would need one by my side in this new adventure, I think.

“Also, unlike any outside lords, I’ve gotten to know you well,” she continued.

“I’ve been here for just around a month or so, Sansa.”

“That’s better than what my parents had,” she chuckled. “About the only things that my father knew of my mother before marrying was her name and the fact that she’d loved his dead brother. We’re much better acquainted than _that._ Also, the fact that you were willing to die for me, well, that just provided more proof of your worth to me.”

He tried to not show his shock when Sansa kneeled by his feet as he continued sitting in the chair, leaning her arms on top of his knees. “Joren, I will not lie to you and say that I am truly in love with you,” she said, the slightest tremble entering her voice. “When I was a child, I used to think I knew what love looked like, but those illusions were shattered long ago. I will say that I would _wish_ to love you, and that I would like to learn if we could love each other. Would you be open to that, at least?”

“I would, if I could be assured this is not some lingering fever dream stuck in my brain,” Joren sighed. “Seven hells, Sansa.”

She rose to her feet and cupped his cheek with her hand. _“This_ is real, trust me, Joren. I also admit, I had another specific reason for considering you.” She took in another deep breath while using the heel of her other hand to wipe the corners of her eyes. “I know you once loved someone who was… hurt like I was. I started to think that maybe you would be the type of person who could love me, despite what I’d been through. Please, Joren, know that I would _never_ seek to take Lilly’s place in your heart. Rather, that there might be spare room there for me. I apologize for imposing myself, Joren…”

“You wish happiness for yourself; you need not apologize for that,” Joren said.

She closed her eyes for a long moment before looking at him again. “How it would work is, we would be married. You would enter House Stark rather than the other way around. You could even take the name Stark if you wished…”

“My father named me Joren Snow,” he interrupted. “Best not to go against my father’s wishes. Besides, any children we would have would be Starks anyway, correct? That would be the important thing.”

Sansa nodded. “I would name you Lord Protector of the North at the start, so you could oversee the North in my absence. I will likely have to travel south with the Northern lords on the coming campaign, so you can watch over things in my place. Once I officially become queen, you will be named my Prince Consort.”

Joren smiled ruefully. “As simple as that.”

“Joren, I would not expect you to give me an answer now,” Sansa said, as her hand now moved to soothe the top of his head. “We should talk some more, get an even better idea of who each of us are as people, and decide together.”

“That would make sense, I suppose,” he said. “So, what else would I have to learn about you, do you think?”

For a moment, she seemed frozen in place, unsure of what to do next. Then, her reddish brows narrowed as she appeared to decide on her course of action. “Best you should learn what it would be like to truly share my bed.” Sansa bent down to him.

Her kiss was both unexpected but inevitable for Joren, warm and inviting as her arms crept around the back of his neck to gather him in, while he wrapped his arms around her waist as she stood above him. Remembering how it had been with Lilly, he waited for Sansa to take the lead. She had started to probe his mouth with her tongue when, shivering suddenly, she broke off the embrace and stood up, hugging herself and taking rapid breaths.

“Sansa? Sansa?” he said, reaching up to attempt to take her hand. “It’s OK. You don’t have to do this if you don’t wan…”

Sansa whirled to face him, eyes blazing and jaw set. _“No,” _she growled at him. _“No. _If I do not get past this, then everyone who abused me in the past will win. I will _not_ let them win.”

Joren suddenly found the Lady of Winterfell straddling him in the chair, grabbing a hold of the top of that chair while she attacked – simply kissing seemed an inadequate word – the left side of his neck. He could feel her leaving marks up and down from just below his earlobe to his collarbone, and then he found himself shivering among all his limbs. Suddenly, Sansa sat up and broke off the kisses. “Seven Hells, I’m sorry, I forgot.”

“What?”

“Am I the first woman you have been with since Lilly’s death?” she said. “Gods, I was so worried about myself I didn’t even think of your feelings. I apologize.”

“I am fine, Sansa,” he said, cupping the back of her head as he pulled her toward him. “If this is how I can serve you tonight, I will do so freely. Do not apologize for wanting to be happy. I could use a spot of happiness, myself.” He laid a long, slow kiss on her lips. “Perhaps it would be easier for us to go to the bed.”

She nodded, getting to her feet, and holding her hand out for Joren to take as he stood up. “Come.”

They walked hand in hand until they got to the right side of the bed. “You should undress us,” Sansa said, only a slight shake in her voice as she rubbed her hands together. “I don’t quite trust my hands at the moment.”

“All right.” He removed his socks and tunic first – the room was warm, a result of the water from hot springs circulating through walls of the castle. He reached up and started undoing the buttons on the front of her robe as she absentmindedly traced the lines of his bandages along his shoulder and chest for a moment. When he was finished, he slid the robe off her shoulders and let it fall to the ground. She was wearing just a simple long-sleeved white shift underneath. Her feet were bare, and out of the corner of his eye he saw a pair of furred slippers laying by the chair where she had jumped up on his lap.

“Are you ready, Sansa?”

She nodded. “Go ahead, Joren.”

He reached out with both hands and eased the shift off her shoulders. He pulled it down so her arms slid out of the shift, over her breasts, and then it pooled onto the floor.

If there were any physical scars to match the mental ones inflicted on Sansa, he could not see them by the firelight. She was tall for a woman, maybe an inch or two less than himself. Her skin was alabaster with the texture of crème. Her shoulders were broad and strong, and her thighs and calves were curvy but packed with muscle. Her breasts were firm and full, with small, light pink nipples, and her hips had a generous hourglass curve.

He eased his trousers down and stepped out of them toward her. She was hugging herself, her breath rapid, as he came to her and gathered her in his arms. “It’s all right, Sansa,” he whispered to her, “It’s all right.” He held her for a while there, pressing her to him, rubbing her back to calm her as they kissed for a while. Finally, he broke off the kiss. “You want to keep going?” he asked her.

“Yes,” she whispered, mouth open in an O-shape and eyes wide and so dialated that he could hardly see the blue in them.

She reached down and pulled the furs aside from the bed and crawled on top. Intentional or otherwise, the action gave Joren a long and glorious look at her backside, which was as rounded and toned as the rest of her. He decided against reaching out for it just yet, electing to slide in next to her and pull the covers over them.

She lay down on her back and spread her legs. “I’m ready…” she stared to say.

“Wait,” Joren said, reaching around to cradle her head from underneath with one of his arms. “Let me try this… I’m going to touch you in different places. I’ll tell you where I’m going to touch you before I do it. Are you all right with that?”

“Yes,” she breathed.

“All right,” he said. “When I do that, tell me what feels good and what doesn’t interest you. I’ll stick to the former rather than the latter, all right? Now, close your eyes, breathe deeply… and just relax.”

She did as he asked. After a moment to let her get adjusted, he let his fingers drift across her body, first across her face and then her shoulders, just above her chest. He used a combination of just his fingertips and then his whole hands with the caresses. “Do you prefer just the fingers or my hands?” he said.

“Your hands… a little harder,” she breathed. “Just the fingers… they tickle a bit much.”

“Of course.” With one arm around her shoulders, Joren’s hands started drifting down over her breasts after several minutes. He started kneading her breasts with this softest of touch. “Is this all right?”

“’s lovely,” she murmured as she inclined against him in bed. “Keep… keep going.”

Eventually, he inched lower down her body, until his head was parallel with her chest. “I’m going to kiss your breasts now,” he said, looking up at her. “Is that all right?”

“Seven hells, you can do what you wa… oh, _fuck,” _she breathed as he latched onto her left breast.

After a few soft but firm suckles on her nipple, Joren came up for air. “Do you like that?”

“Fucking hells, keep that up,” Sansa moaned as she began to dig her heels into the bed and grasp at the furs.

They stayed that way for a while, Joren suckling at her left breast and caressing her right one with his right hand, feeling her nipples harden and her breaths speed up as time passed while his hand drifted down to her belly and her upper thighs.

He raised himself up from her breast to say, “I was going to…” only to be stopped by Sansa reaching for his left hand and placing it over her pussy.

“Go ahead, do what you wish,” she whispered in his ear.

She shuddered in place as he drew a long line along her slit, then started to play with the bud of flesh at the top of her pussy. “All right,” he said, returning to her breast.

It seemed like they were there for hours, the moon poking in through the window and helping to illuminate Sansa’s chambers as Joren continued to serve her needs. Eventually, she began to shiver and stutter, like she couldn’t take the sensations pulsing from her core. “Gods, it… it feels like it’s too much,” moaned Sansa.

“It’s all right; It’s all right, Sansa,” Joren whispered, brushing the side of her face with his right hand. “It’s going to overflow and feel so good, trust me. Let it happen.”

She eyed him warily from the head of the bed, but then nodded. “OK.”

He gradually sped up the pace of his caresses between her legs. She started to close her legs together as he felt a surge of wetness from her pussy. “Go ahead,” he whispered. “Go ahead, let yourself go…”

“OHHHHHHHHHHHH,” she moaned full-throated, spasming against his hand as she pulled him against her and found her release, her hair flying all around her head and face. She was speechless for minutes as she buried her head under his chin, letting the spasms calm down. After a long silent time, he felt her reach down toward his cock and play around with it. “Not quite ready yet, Joren?” she finally managed to choke out.

“I guess I was paying attention to you instead of my own needs,” Joren sighed as he felt her hold his stones in her hands.

“Perhaps I could… motivate you, my knight?” she whispered in his ear.

Now _he_ was lost in the sensations of her touch. “Motivate away,” he said.

She moved her hand up and down his shaft, not roughly but with some vigor. He didn’t expect to react right away, but he soon found himself rock-hard in her hands. “Ohhhh,” he had to moan now.

Sansa rolled over on top of his body and threw one leg over to the other side. “Do you mind?”

“As you wish,” he chuckled.

She lowered herself onto his member with one long moan. “Gods, that’s exquisite,” she breathed, sheathing the knight fully within her, her wetness allowing it with no difficulty. “Don’t worry, you can spend in me when you want,” she said. “Come on.”

She rode him as he slid one hand onto her left breast and the other to her rear, urging her on. “Come on, ride,” he hissed. “Let me feel it. Let yourself go.”

There were long moments then, when he wasn’t sure he would be able to hold on until she found her release. Eventually, however, she leaned forward and planted both hands on his chest, pumping harder all the time and grunting. “Come on,” she breathed, her blue eyes wide in wonder, “are you ready?”

“Go ahead and make me ready,” Joren said, grabbing her right butt cheek firmly in one hand and her breast in the other. “Come on, make me come.”

“Very well,” she grunted, “harder, harder! Oh _gods!” _she screamed as she felt Joren spend inside of her, his seed coating the inside of her passage and triggering her own clenching orgasm.

She slumped against his body, moaning, but immediately pulled herself up to make sure her body weight didn’t lean against him or any of his wounds. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Sansa, I’m fine, trust me.”

“That was glorious,” Sansa grunted as she slumped to Joren’s side, tucked in against it. She whispered something to him, but he couldn’t hear, so he rolled around in bed to face her. “What did you say?”

She locked eyes with him, holding both sides of his face, blue staring into grey. “Thank you,” she said, “thank you.” She punctuated her statement with a kiss. “Joren? Can you hold me for a while as I go to sleep?”

“Anything I can do to show _my_ appreciation for you, I will do in a heartbeat,” he said, gathering her into his arms as he lay on his back. “You have but to ask it.”

Nodding, she kissed him on the nose before tucking her head into Joren’s neck. “Good night, my knight.”

“Good night, My Queen,” he breathed just loud enough for her to hear.

#

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, let me know how I handled the romantic scenes. I want to make sure I am handling them respectfully, and also using them not just for their own sake, but the sake of the story. In this instance, I wanted to use them to show the different dynamics of the two couples and how they illustrate their change and growth, both as individual characters and as couples.
> 
> I appreciate all kudos and comments, and I'll keep replying back. In examining my current word count, it is official - this is the largest piece of fiction of any kind I have ever written. That's really astonishing.
> 
> All of you keep safe, and all you writers keep writing.


	35. The Union of Queen and Knight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new pack comes into being. Arya and Gendry plan for their future. An unconventional wedding takes place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, this chapter split into two chapters and this is officially (as of now) 52 chapters. If it grows or shrinks I have no bloody idea at this point.
> 
> Glad I'm powering through this and hope you enjoy the chapter.

35.

**Daenerys**

As she stirred from her previous night’s sleep, she was grateful that her stomach had calmed down. Part of it was the herbal tea remedy that Serenei had recommended to her, but the other part was that the burnt smell of wood and bodies had finally dissipated from around Winterfell three weeks after having the mass funeral.

Laying on her left side, she opened her eyes hoping for a gradual return to consciousness, but what she saw caused her to jump, startled, up in bed. Landing on her bottom, she yelled, “Jon! What the bloody Seven Hells is a direwolf doing here?”

She heard Jon’s voice explain in a totally reasonable tone, “Why, my love, we have a direwolf in our bedroom almost every night…”

_“That’s not Ghost! _Shit!”

She pointed to the head of a light grey direwolf that had propped its head onto her side of the bed until its snout was within inches of her face. Despite being smaller than most direwolves, it still loomed over the bed, staring quietly at her with ice-blue eyes.

“Ah, aye,” Jon replied. She felt his hands rubbing her shoulders from behind and him kissing her on the top of her head. “It appears that both I and Ghost have found mates.”

“What…” she started to say, but fell silent as she saw Ghost trot up next to the smaller direwolf and nuzzle its nose with his own. Ghost then touched its head to that of the other direwolf, as if to… tell her to mind itself? Behave? She couldn’t tell. “When did this happen?”

“This one came from Nymeria’s pack,” he said. “She’s still a young one, maybe three name days, but I don’t know if she is from one of Nymeria and Red Claw’s litters. Maybe her mother passed and they took her on. Anyway, she’s been following around our older boy for the past week or so. I think he decided it was time to introduce her to his parents.”

She reached over and gently stroked the girl direwolf’s snout. It lay its head onto the bed again, eyes closed and panting with its tounge stuck out. “Gods, she’s eager for attention, this one,” Daenerys said. “I’m guessing she’s coming along with us and Ghost to the south?”

“Not just them for long,” Jon chuckled. “I get the feeling they intend to create their own pack soon. If we wanted furred companions for our future children, it appears we might be in luck.”

“What’s her name?” she said as she stroked the top of her furred head.

“Hadn’t quite decided. I figured, since you’ve seemed to pick up Tyrion’s knack for names, given what you selected for our children, that you might give it a try?”

She softly ruffled the direwolf’s ears. “Ghost’s mate, so… Spirit. Yes, that’ll do. Her eyes make her seem like a spirit for sure.” She leaned back into Jon’s embrace from behind as he sat with his front to her back. “She seems so calm.”

“Both of them get the idea you’re family. But… thinking back, I’m wondering if Ghost didn’t realize something was up with you before everyone else did.”

“They seem to have the instincts and intelligence of dragons, for sure. Big plans for tonight, right?”

“Yes, but not until later. It would be lovely to sleep in for a while, wouldn’t it?”

She looked over and saw Spirit curling up against Ghost in front of the fireplace. “It seems like they have the proper idea, My King,” she said, then laid down so her head laid on his chest.

“I’d agree, My Queen,” he whispered, wrapping an arm around her, and drifting off for a nap.

#

**Gendry**

“…six castles were ra…raised by Durran Gods…greyef? Gods…”

“Godsgrief,” Arya whispered to him as they sat in the forge, “Godsgrief.”

Gendry nodded. “And six castles crumbl…crumbled into the sea,” he read from a volume of the old histories of the Storm Kings. “It was not until he rec…received help from Brand…Brandun the Buildr and the Children… Children of the Forrest that the seventh cast...castal stood strong.”

“You’re doing so well for just starting out,” Arya whispered into his ear, so close that her breath heated his ear canal and her lips brushed against his earlobe.

It had been an interesting experience having Arya help him with learning letters. She was more than a decent reader herself, and surprisingly patient with his stumbling. However, the… _incentives_ she provided to reward good work were certainly none approved by any septons or maesters. However, they seemed to work for him. He was doing even better with his numbers and maths.

“Go on, take a break, then,” she said, leaning back and scribbling something with colored stencils on a sheet of paper placed on a tablet in her lap. As Gendry eagerly started back to work shaping a section of plate armor for his own suit, she asked, “Now, are you sure you're OK with the name?”

He glanced over his shoulder as he gave the shoulder piece another few whacks with the small hammer. “I said whatever you wanted to do, right? Anyway, what have you got there?”

“Remember how I kept telling you I think you needed a new sigil?” Arya said.

Gendry groaned good-naturedly as he turned around to face her. “I’m breaking enough traditions being a bastard rather than a trueborn son from the start, aren’t I? I don’t know if that’s a good idea…”

“A sigil isn’t _that_ sacred, Gendry,” scoffed Arya. “Your ancestors stole the old colors and sigil of House Durrandon anyway, right? Then your father just threw a crown above the stag and your uncle plopped a big-ass flaming heart in it. Why not go for a change?”

“Very well, Arry. So, what do you have in mind?” Gendry said as he sauntered up to her.

Arya clasped the drawing tablet to her chest, keeping it from his eyes until she felt ready. “Well, I have to admit that black and yellow is a good color combination.”

“And the house slogan?”

“’Ours is the fury,’” she chuckled. “Honestly, there’s days that fits me better than I might think at first.”

“So, do you have an idea for the sigil, then?”

Arya nodded. “Look, you’re Bull, right? You’re also a smith. I think it’s time the sigil reflected that.” After a couple false starts, she turned the tablet around to show him. “What do you think?” she said, her nervousness apparent.

The design was a black bull’s head on a yellow background. It was a solid, thick head, with flaring, slitted yellow nostrils, glowering yellow eyes, and two stubby, thick bull horns. Just underneath the head were two black warhammers forming an x-shape.

“What do you think?” she repeated. “It’s basic, I know, but I… think it fits you….”

“This is lovely, thank you,” he said. “It’s a fine design. I didn’t know you could draw this well.”

“Well, it’s not needlepoint and the design’s pretty basic, so… you want to use it?”

“Might as well,” Gendry said as he handed back the drawing to Arya. “Not likely they kept the old sigil banners hanging around somewhere after all the other Baratheons snuffed it. Plus, antlers are a bit more unwieldy for a helmet than horns.”

“Wonderful,” she said. “I honestly can’t think of anything else to go over. Is there anything else you can think of?”

Gendry though for a long moment, sitting down with her on the heavy bench near the forge. “Wait, there’s one thing we didn’t talk about,” he said. “What… what if there are children?”

Arya glared up at him in stunned but exasperated disbelief. “’What if there are children,’ Gods…” She burst out laughing. “Gendry, you make it sound like children just bloody show up, like they’re delivered to deserving families by traveling trained direwolves or some bloody nonsense like that.” She reached over and put her hand on his thigh. “How it works is, we make love and you squirt your _seed_ into me… you seem to be quite familiar with the procedure,” she cackled as her hand slid up toward his crotch.

He caught her hand and brought it up for a kiss. “Yes, I _know,” _ he said. “What I mean is, are you all right having children, raising them?”

“Ahhhh… ugh,” she grunted, squeezing her hand out of his grasp after the kiss and giving him a playful smack on the shoulder. “I mean, I always thought it was silly, but someone has to carry on after we pass on, so I guess we’d need to have children… not seven or ten or some mad number, but one… or two, after all of this Cersei madness is over. I just never saw myself as someone who could be a mother – it was for Sansa to do, not me. I never had any talent in dealing with children.”

“No talent…” He had to shake his head at that. “You might have forgotten a lot about the past few years, but I didn’t. I remember you in Harrenhal, when we were locked up, how you were always looking out for the little ones around us, making sure they got extra to eat. How many little girls and boys saw you practicing your water dancing when we were on the road and you became their hero just like that? Then there were all the boys and girls you trained to fight here at Winterfell…”

“…and managed to get them killed,” Arya said, her face falling as she remembered the young dead.

“Knock your horseshit off; you’re the reason a lot of them lived through all that,” he said, grabbing her shoulders so she faced him. “There’d have been a lot more boys and girls on those pyres if not for your teachings. The point is, you wouldn’t be rubbish at being a parent.”

“What about you? Do you want children?” she asked, unsure.

“Well… Arry, it’s you that would carry the child; I’d think your opinion’s more important.”

His words seemed to stun her for a moment, leaving her breathless. Finally, she leaned in and kissed him. “Thank you for that.”

“For what?”

“For being a far better man than most, Bull,” she whispered. “I know your father barely cared for a woman’s opinion, never mind think it might be more important than his. I’d like to think my father felt the way you do. Anyway… despite that, I still want to know what you think.”

The whole notion of children and him seemed so bizarre to him, even then. “If you’d asked me even a month ago, I’d have thought you mad,” he replied. “There wasn’t any point in thinking of such things. What would the point of bringing some boy or girl into the world with a bastard name be? What would the point of having a child if all I could leave them after I died was some tiny smith shop or some pots and pans at best?”

“Things have changed, though,” Arya said, reaching up to touch his cheek.

“Exactly. Now, I’ve got a name. Apparently, I’m going to get a castle, although I’m not sure I could find my way to it unaided or know what it would look like…”

“Keep reading in the book,” she joked.

“Anyway, I’d be able to give them something, but… I’d still need your help. I mean, at least you had your parents for most of your life, so you saw how they sorted things. I didn’t know my father…”

“No great loss, I think.”

He nodded. “…and barely knew my mum, so… I’d need your help, knowing what to do. It’d be wonderful to give some boy who might resemble me the family I never had.”

“What if it was a little girl who looked like me?” she whispered, eyebrow cocked, as she leaned closer to him with a sly smile.

“Oh, Gods,” he groaned, “if that happened, you’d have to tell her what’s what. I wouldn’t have the heart to yell at her if she did anything wrong.”

She chuckled at that as they leaned toward each other, touching foreheads for a long time, just thinking. “So…” Gendry finally said. “I think we’d agree to one or two children, not right away, and see how we feel about more later. Am I right?”

He felt her nod despite touching foreheads. “Agreed,” she huffed, her tone somewhere between sarcastic and sincere. “Anyway, I agree.” She looked up. “Do you?”

“Aye,” Gendry said right away. “I think it’s time we talked with Jon and Daenerys.”

“They’d be in the Great Hall,” she said, helping to pull him to his feet.

“What for…? Oh, right.”

#

The Great Hall was a hive of activity as workers brought in additional tables for that evening’s planned feast, and there were even white buntings and a few winter roses and lilies from the somehow unharmed glass gardens to be placed along the walls. Arya and Gendry walked in to find Jon, Daenerys, and Sansa at the far end of the hall, supervising some of the work and deep in conversation.

Sansa noticed them first. “Hello to both of you. Arya, you ready to come with me?”

“Absolutely,” Arya nodded, “But we have to talk to Jon and Daenerys first.”

“Hi, Arya,” Jon said. “What do you want to talk about?”

“Daenerys, I wanted to accept your offer for Storm’s End and the Stormlands, but there’s a condition to it,” Gendry spoke up.

“Of course, Gendry, what is it?”

“When the time comes… when I take it on, I’m not doing it alone,” he said, standing almost like a soldier on parade in front of his cousins and future in-laws. “I want Arya to be made the co-high lady of the Stormlands along with me. We want it to be like how both of you are going to co-rule the High Kingdom.”

There was a small pause, then… “I think that’s an excellent idea,” Daenerys said.

“Great,” Jon said. “So, does this mean…”

“Consider this your official notice of our betrothal,” Arya said, Gendry nodding next to her.

That prompted a flurry of hugs and congratulations all around, Gendry glad that Jon’s handshake and hug seemed genuine and not forced out of reluctance.

“And consider that my official blessing,” Jon said.

“Mine, as well,” Daenerys said.

“Well, since we’re getting everything ready,” Jon continued, “I was wondering, maybe we can take care of this tonight too.” Everyone in the circle except Jon noticed the eyes of all the ladies bugging out of their heads in panic as they realized Jon’s meaning…

“Oh, _no,_ Jon, I wouldn’t think of it,” Arya said to the immense relief of Sansa and Daenerys. “This is Sansa’s night. I wouldn’t dream of intruding on it.”

“I’m sure we could announce their betrothal at the feast, but we wouldn’t have to make a big deal of it,” Daenerys said. “Like Arya said, it’s Sansa’s night.” Gendry saw Sansa mouth _thank you_ to Arya as Jon realized his error.

“Besides, we’re going to be leaving early tomorrow,” Arya said.

“For what?” Jon asked.

“You know that Lord Howland is going to leave early for the Neck and gather men and supplies for the next campaign,” Arya replied. “Since he plans to stop at Greywater Watch, Brandon wanted to accompany him there, meet with his daughter. Brandon wanted Gendry and I to go with him.”

Brandon had finally woken up ten days after the end of the battle. He was still very weakened over the experience, as well as dealing with cracked ribs, a concussion, and various bruises and sprains. Gendry was happy after Arya returned from her first meeting with Bran after his awakening and said “It’s not the old Bran, but it’s not whatever that all-seeing rubbish was, either.”

“Is he up for traveling?” Jon said.

“He said he is,” Arya said. “Trust me, we’ll be at Harrenhal and ready to get married before the Stormland lords show up for the great council, I promise.”

Jon nodded. “All right, I’m sure he could use the company. Safe travels to you both.”

“Yes, safe travels,” Sansa said, hugging both newly betrothed. “Now, if you excuse us…” She took Arya by the hand and dragged her out of the hall.

Jon turned to Daenerys. “Darling, if you would give me leave, I wanted to speak with Gendry for a bit.”

“I’ll be all right, Jon,” she said, pulling him down for a kiss. “You go on.”

“Where’re we off to?” Gendry said as Jon led him out the building.

“To get a bit of sparring in. I told Joren to meet us out there.”

“All right,” Gendry said.

Once they got out of the Great Hall, Jon asked Gendry as they walked, “So, what are your thoughts on Ser Joren?”

_Uh oh_, Gendry thought. “Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know,” Jon sighed, shaking his head. “Sansa seems happy, but… I hope it’s the right decision. I mean, they’ve known each other for two months…”

“Aren’t most of these highborn marriages ones where they don’t know each other?” Gendry said. “I think Sansa’s not one to make a rash judgement, she thinks through things.”

“Maybe, but…” Jon stopped in his tracks so abruptly that Gendry had to backtrack. “I’m doing it again,” Jon groaned. “Sansa told me once that I can’t protect her from all the dangers out there in the world, and here I am trying to.”

Gendry stepped in from of Jon to get his attention. “As far as Ser Joren goes, he seems a good man. Sansa’s given him a… purpose, I guess, that he didn’t have before. He’s not going to mess it up.”

“And how do you know…”

“He’s _our _kind of bastard, Jon,” Gendry said. “From what I’ve learned, I think there’s two types of highborn bastards. There’s the kind that thinks the world owes something to them. From what you told me of him, I think Ramsey Snow was that type. Then, there’s the type who thinks they _don’t _deserve anything. That’s the type of bastards we grew up as being, and that’s the type Ser Joren is.”

Jon looked down and nodded. Neither he nor Gendry were technically bastards anymore, but twenty years-plus experience of living as one never truly went away. “We’re some trio of bastards, aren’t we?” Jon said.

“I think it’s going to work out,” Gendry said. “In the end, Sansa will sort him out if things don’t go her way.” He paused for a second. “I’m still surprised you haven’t threatened to keep me in line with Arya.”

Jon laughed at that, hands on hips. “Ahhh, well, I’d thought about it, but… that’s because Arya’s even less willing to listen to any lectures from me than Sansa is. Look, I know you two have been together…”

He held up his palms to Jon. “I didn’t ever mean to disgrace her, Jon…”

“You haven’t, and you didn’t do anything I haven’t done, or something she didn’t wish for,” Jon said, reaching up to grasp Gendry’s shoulders. “I’d be a hypocrite if I accused you of doing that. Anyway, you two know each other – far better than Sansa and Joren, longer than Dany and me. But, I also know she’d be happy to kill you if you did wrong by her. There’s another thing, which I think you need to keep in mind no matter how she might frustrate you as time goes on.”

“What’s that?”

“She’s truly mad about you,” Jon said. “Remember when you told me that you would do anything for her? I know, deep down, that she would do the same for you. Anyway, let’s get going.”

“We’ve been having a bit of training these past few weeks, haven’t we?” Gendry groaned. It wasn’t just that, however – Gendry had been included in several of the tactical discussions between Jon and the other military commanders regarding their campaign toward King’s Landing.

“There’s a reason for it,” Jon said. “You’ve turned into a pretty good fighter, but I’ve been trying to get you to become more of a soldier, especially since with this Stormlands thing, you’ll likely be commanding at least some troops in the field. I want you to have a basic understanding of how that works.”

Gendry had no idea about what it would take to be a general. “With that, Jon… I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“Listen to those under you, especially those who have combat experience. Be willing to follow the advice of others. Dany and Tyrion have been invaluable to me in helping me understand about politics and diplomacy. I’ll be willing to help you with all that I know.”

“I appreciate it,” Gendry said, extending his hand.

Jon took it. “Just trying to make sure a future goodbrother doesn’t get massacred for his sister’s sake,” he said. “I’d never hear the end of it. Shall we?”

#

**Sansa**

She was happy with how the dress had turned out as she sat in front of the mirror in her chambers.

Trying to keep any memories of the first marriage she’d had at Winterfell out of her head, she had decided to stay away from a white dress. This time, she had crafted a long-sleeved grey winter gown, with a modest black fox fur collar and light blue trim along the dress. A black Stark direwolf sigil nearly covered the entire chest area of the dress.

Arya finished tying off the single Northern-style braid in her sister’s hair. “Not sure what use I am for you tonight,” she said. “You already did wonderfully with your dress, and you look magnificent. I just feel like I’m in the way.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” Sansa replied. “I didn’t think of it at the time, but you weren’t at either of my first two ceremonies. Looking back, I wish you had been there, for moral support if anything. But tonight, I think you are my good luck charm.”

“Thanks.”

“Oh, and about that favor you asked… I should have plenty of time to do that on the road to Harrenhal.”

“Are you sure, Sansa?” Arya asked, hugging her from behind and resting her head on Sansa’s shoulder.

“Easy as anything.”

“Thank you. I left you the samples in your room.” She looked up from Sansa’s shoulders. “You ready for this?” she whispered.

“Most definitely,” Sansa said, nodding. “I’m ready. You remember what to do with the cloaks?”

“I do,” Arya said, breaking the embrace and standing up.

Sansa followed. “Off to a wedding.”

#

A few flurries fell on the courtyard of Winterfell, not enough to cover it with snow, but enough to make the mud and muck a bit wetter. She did her best to keep her dress’ hem out of the mud as she approached the entrance to the godswood and found a man waiting for her.

“You look lovely as ever, My Lady,” Tyrion Lannister said as she approached. He was decked out in an elegant crimson and gold tunic, black trousers, and black leather riding boots. She noticed that the Lannister sigil was nowhere to be seen, but he sported his Hand pin above his left breast.

“Thank you, My Lord,” she said as she stopped in front of him.

“I must say, I have performed many different favors for friends, but this has to be a first,” he said with an arched eyebrow. “I was thinking that you would have preferred to have your brother…”

“He’ll be performing the ceremony as my King,” Sansa said, reassuring. “You have always been truly kind to me, Tyrion, especially at a difficult time for me when it did not profit you to do so. I can never properly repay you for what you did for me, but think of this as a small way to begin saying thanks.”

“Well, when put in that fashion,” Tyrion said, reaching up with his hand, “How could I turn you down?”

Hand in hand, they walked together into the godswood.

#

They approached the heart tree in the twilight, following a path lit by a line of torches on both sides. The few trees and other greenery that had been damaged from the battle had been cleared away, and work had begun on rebuilding the section of the outer wall to the west, but Sansa had insisted that work on rebuilding the winter town should take priority for now.

Winterfell’s heart tree stood untouched, with those she loved underneath its branches. Jon was at the center, Daenerys off to his immediate left. On the left of the royal couple she saw Arya with a wicked grin and her arms full of two bundles of grey cloth, Gendry by her side. Bran was to her left, brought to the godswood by Lord Samwell, who had been overseeing his recovery for the previous week. Bran appeared pale and somewhat worn, but he smiled broadly as he caught sight of his sister. She was also pleasantly surprised to see Ser Brienne of Tarth next to her family as well, accompanied by Ser Jaime Lannister, who grinned as he nodded to Tyrion.

On the right, there was a group of some of the Northern and other lords there to witness what was essentially a royal wedding; there would be even more in attendance at the wedding feast afterward. She saw Lord Wyman Manderly, who had come to take charge of his men as Wyllis Manderly went back to White Harbor to recover from his injuries, as well as the lords Gawan Glover, Larence Hornwood, Clay Cerwyn, and Ned Umber, Lady Alys Karstark, and Ser Harrold Hardyng, among others. Lady Mormont was still in her sick bed, but was still insisting she and her men would make the march south with the army.

There were a handful of others at the ceremony. She was happy to see Roster Archmon, the young woodsman who had come to Winterfell with Joren, standing on a crutch over to the right. His right leg had been mauled by one of the undead direwolves during The Battle of the Long Night, but the maesters said he should be able to regain full use of it with time. Right next to Roster was her betrothed.

She suppressed a giggle at Joren attempting some last-minute adjustments to the straps of the full plate armor he was wearing for the occasion. A dark Northern design that was light, durable, and lined with leather for winter wear, it suited him although it was the first time he’d ever worn full plate, preferring leather armor because it allowed freer movement.

When he caught sight of her as he made one more adjustment to his swordbelt, he lit up, his normally somber cast flying away. She tried not to stare too much at him or how he was shifting from one foot to another as he waited for her to get there.

As a child, she had always feared people thinking badly of her or being the target of gossip behind her back. About to embark on her third marriage, however, Sansa was surprised that the whispers and murmurs amongst the lords hardly troubled her at all. “Where’s her cloak at?” she heard Lord Wyman say. _Not as many of the older lords as there were before,_ she thought.

She stopped a few yards away from the tree. “Who comes before the Old Gods this night?” Jon said.

It was Sansa who spoke up. “Sansa Stark of House Stark, Crown Princess and Wardeness of the North. A woman grown, flowered, trueborn, and noble. She comes to beg the blessings of the Old Gods. Who comes to claim her?”

“Ser Joren Snow of House Flint, sworn sword to the bride,” Joren called out clearly. “Who gives her?”

“Lord Tyrion Lannister, of House Lannister,” said Tyrion. “Friend, and… former husband of the bride.” With a flourish, he led Sansa by the hand toward Joren as someone Sansa thought was Ser Harrold stage-whispered, “What the fuck is this?”

Once Sansa and Joren clasped hands in front of Jon, he locked eyes with his sister. “Princess Sansa of House Stark, do you take this man?” It was less than a public declaration than an intimate confirmation that this was what she wanted.

After a deep breath, she said clearly, “I take this man.”

Nodding in affirmation, Jon bade them to kneel before the tree for a brief prayer. _You have helped me survive my past marriages,_ she said in silent prayer to any of the Old Gods that would listen. _Now, help me prosper in this one._

As they rose, Arya came to stand in front of them, holding two cloaks in her arms to both Sansa and Joren. “The bride may bring the groom into her family,” Jon said. At that, Sansa picked up the first of the cloaks and placed it around Joren’s neck. It was a grey cloak, covered across the back with a black Stark sigil. Once she was done, Jon said, “The groom may bring the bride under his protection.” Joren took the second cloak, which was identical in design to his, and placed it over her shoulders before he fastened it.

Once he was done, Joren drew his sword and kneeled before Sansa, placing the blade at her feet. “I offer my services, Princess Sansa,” he said, looking up at her as if looking for salvation. “I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New.”

The words came easier to Sansa than they did a couple years back, when a scared young woman had accepted Brienne into her service. “And I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth, and mead and meat at my table. And I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New. Arise, Ser Joren Snow of House Stark, Lord Protector of the North.”

As he stood up, she said to him, loud enough for the nearby onlookers to hear, “My true knight.” She pulled him down into a long kiss, and she could tell he was warming up underneath all his armor from her attention.

“Congratulations,” Jon said. No sooner than their embrace was done that they were swarmed by their family. Jon hugged both bride and groom and Daenerys kissed both of them on the cheek, while Sansa’s siblings lined up to give out their embraces and congratulations, as applause eventually burbled up from the rest of the crowd.

Taking both bride and groom by the hand, Daenerys said, “Lords, ladies, all others in attendance, thank you for gracing us with your presence this eve for the marriage of Ser Joren Snow and Princess Sansa Stark,” she said. “We intend to celebrate this night properly, so feel free to join us in the Great Hall for a proper wedding feast.”

A cheer rang out through the crowd as they followed Jon and Daenerys out of the godswood and toward the Great Hall. Sansa stood there for a while, looking into the crying face of the weirwood tree. Finally, she felt a armor-plated hand on her shoulder. “Sansa? Are you all right?”

She looked over at her shoulder as a smile grew on her face. “I was just saying goodbye to a bad memory for good,” she explained, holding out her arm. “Shall we, husband?”

“Indeed we shall, Wife,” he said, letting her loop her arm around his elbow as they made their way out of the godswood.

#

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, let me know what you think in the comments or just say hi - I will respond back.
> 
> Next chapter, we'll have a big blowout feast at Winterfell, a mini-family reunion, a look at the newlyweds alone, and other romance as well.
> 
> [EDIT: 400 kudos and 100 bookmarks! That was cool to see.]


	36. The Parting Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The armies of the Dragon King and Queen celebrate victory and a wedding as they prepare for the journey south.

36:

**Daenerys**

She was surprised at the crowds that they saw, especially in the evening.

Daenerys and Jon were leading the bridal party from the godswood to the Great Hall for the feast, flanked by Grey Worm and a selected Unsullied guard. All along that route through the courtyard, people stood on the sides of the procession, well-lit by the full moon overhead, to greet them. While a great number of the well-wishers were cheering on the newly married Lady of Winterfell and her knight husband, there were just as many cheering on Jon and especially Daenerys, who had been keeping a low profile over the past few weeks as she recovered and sought to fool any unfriendly observers.

“Three cheers for the Dragon Queen!” one man yelled out as they passed.

“Three cheers for the Mother of Dragons!” called out another woman. Jon could see the smallest of smiles from Grey Worm as he took in the reception.

The Unsullied commander was taken by surprise by a young Northern girl, maybe three and ten, who broke from the crowd and made it to the queen’s side. For the briefest of moments, Grey Worm’s hand drifted to his dagger until he saw the girl extend to Daenerys not a weapon or threatening gesture, but a handful of purple winter pansies. “The Old Gods bless you, Your Grace,” she squeaked, seemingly overexcited by the occasion.

Daenerys accepted the floral gift from her, patting her on the cheek. “Thank you, sweetling,” she said. She took two of the flowers and tucked them behind her ears, holding the remainder in her right hand as Daenerys nodded to the girl.

“I didn’t believe I would ever win over your people, Jon,” she whispered in her husband’s ear as they continued to the Great Hall. “But… perhaps I have?”

“Agreed,” he said as he took her arm. “It turns out protecting people from undead invaders and nearly getting killed in the process makes an impression on Northerners. I’m glad you didn’t have to go as far as I did to do it.”

She leaned into him, remembering the scars on her beloved’s chest. “I as well.”

#

**Jon**

The hall was lined with tables packed with men and women starting to imbibe a wide variety of wines, ale, and mead as the first of several courses were placed before them, this one being a spicy onion, mushroom, and pea soup.

He tried to think back, back to his earliest memories of when he’d been allowed to attend feasts with the rest of his trueborn family, whether there had been one of this size in the Great Hall of Winterfell. The feast welcoming King Robert Baratheon to the castle seven years previously might have been as big, but he could never recall one that had as many different peoples and characters as this night’s feast. The Great Hall could only fit in the highborn and other leaders of the army; the remainder of the army were eating well enough thanks to the kitchens of Winterfell and their own efforts, but they were eating wherever they could find an empty spot in or around the castle.

There were at least three tables alone full of Dothraki warriors well into their horns of fermented mare’s milk. Khal Jommo, a hulking, dark-copper skinned man of six and twenty, traded japes and boasts with his men and kos. However, he had sworn to his queen that they would be on their best behavior, meaning there would be no blood duels in the Great Hall.

A week ago, Daenerys had appointed him the new overall Khal of the army’s Dothraki contingent. She’d explained to Jon at the time that he’d been one of the warriors unsure of her as a queen early, but had converted to her side later.

What he lacked in the length of his hair braids, the outward sign of a Dothraki’s war experience and success, he more than made up for in ambition and vision. Although completely loyal to Daenerys, he was already looking forward to the time when they would collect their expected Westerosi pillage and return in triumph to the Dothraki Sea. With her on the throne of Westeros, he correctly assumed he would have a freer hand to raid and plunder as he saw fit, if not with the assistance of the Khalessi, then at least without her objections.

Although the Unsullied typically were not ones for such feast celebrations, Grey Worm was at one of the tables near the front, accompanied by Missandei, some of his lieutenants, and some of the other assorted Essoi auxiliary helpers. If the Battle of the Long Night had not made the Northerners fully comfortable with the exotic Dothraki and Unsullied warriors, their fighting prowess and sacrifices had earned them a large amount of respect, and here and there Jon saw some of the Northerners reaching out to them, if only for a drinking game or two. Lord Tyrion had plopped himself down with that group, deep in conversation and drink with Serenei of Lys and Sers Bronn, Jaime, and Brienne.

On the other side of the hall were a mixed contingent of Vale and Riverlands men, looking slightly nervously at the untamed men around them but relaxing more as the drinks continued to flow. The Knights of the Vale had certainly done their part, and if the Riverlands men had not seen the worst of the fighting, neither had they embarrassed themselves in combat.

The remainder of the hall was dominated with Northerners and the Freefolk. While Wyman Manderly held court at one table and Tormund at another with his arm around what appeared to be a Dothraki female, Jon was pleasantly surprised to see a considerable amount of intermingling between the two groups. He saw the men of House Karstark and the Thenns sitting around their respective leaders, deep in conversation with each other. He also noticed the four and ten lord of Last Hearth, Ned Umber, trying to act inconspicuous as he sat next to Tormund’s daughter Munda, who he guessed was the same age as Ned.

He had given Sansa and Ser Joren the seat of honor at the center of the table in the front of the room, both due to Sansa’s status as Lady of Winterfell and due to their nuptials that evening. Jon and Daenerys sat themselves to Sansa and Joren’s right, while Arya and Gendry were to their left. Brandon had begged off attending the feast that evening, saying that he wished to save his energy for the next day’s trip.

As everyone was getting settled in, Jon stood up and raised his mug. “Everyone, thank you for being our guests tonight,” he said. “We are here this evening to celebrate the marriage of my beloved sister, the Lady of Winterfell, Sansa Stark, and to welcome Ser Joren Snow into our family. May the Old Gods look over their union, and bring them both happiness and prosperity. To them,” he toasted. A cheer went up after everyone toasted a beaming Sansa and a self-conscious Joren.

“Some of you have asked me if the Queen and myself will host a belated wedding feast for ourselves at some point,” he continued. “Well, I would not wish to intrude on my sister’s wedding feast. However, we _do_ plan to have such a celebration when we reach Harrenhal to honor both our official claiming of the crown of Westeros and the renewal of our vows in the presence of the Faith of the Seven.”

_She looks lovely tonight, _Jon thought to himself as he and Dany’s eyes met. _Those flowers bring out the violet in her eyes… maybe she should have some at the Harrenhal ceremony? Hopefully they were blooming in the Riverlands._

“In addition, when that happens, I will be abdicating my crown in the North in favor of Princess Sansa,” he continued, prompting some surprised murmurs from the Northern lords. “With Her Grace and myself in the south, we believe that the North needs strong local leadership that knows both its current and future needs so it may grow and prosper. With Ser Joren by her side as Prince Consort and Lord Protector of the North, I know my sister will be the type of leader the North needs.”

Arya was first to her feet raising what appeared to be a very oversized tankard of ale. “To Queen Sansa,” she said, toasting her sister, “Long may she reign.”

“To Queen Sansa,” responded the calls from the Northerners and others, the female nobles such as Lady Alys being particularly vocal.

Jon’s eyes widened as he saw Arya down nearly half her tankard in a single gulp. _Wonder if she picked up the habit in Braavos._ He idly noted that Gendry, who had a similar sized tankard, seemed to be pacing his own drinking modestly as compared to the stories he’d heard about King Robert.

As Arya leaned down to hug Sansa, Jon overheard Sansa say to her, “How you managed not to jape at me doing that, I’ll never know.” Arya cackled in response.

When she stood back up, Jon was behind her with an arm around her shoulder and his tankard-holding hand from his other arm on the seated Gendry’s shoulder. “I _did_ want to announce the betrothal and impending marriage of my other sister, Lady Arya Stark, and her new husband, the Lord Gendry Baratheon,” he said. “You all know what both contributed to the defense of the North. I know that they will serve the people of the Stormlands just as well as their high lord and lady. May the Old Gods look over their future union, and bring them both happiness and prosperity,” he toasted.

“To the future Lady Baratheon,” Sansa said as she stood up with her own toast, unable to resist.

Arya silently mouthed “I’m getting you for that,” as she returned the toast and attempted to glare fiercely at her sister. She didn’t quite manage the glare, but she finished off her ale and went down to a pitcher of ale to get a refill.

“In addition, tonight is a celebration of life,” Jon said. “We’ve spent more than a little of our time since the battle with the Others remembering those who we have lost, and rightly so. Tonight, let’s give thanks to being among the living, and pray for the success of the work and fighting that is to come. Now, eat, drink, and enjoy the rest of your evening, please.”

As the second course – barbecued venison and chicken with dry rub and accompanied by roasted potatoes and leeks – came to the tables, everyone got down to a proper start of the feast.

“Can’t believe you did that,” Arya half-grunted, half-chuckled to her sister.

“I’m just looking forward to the first tea party you’ll have to host in Storm’s End for all the noble women of the kingdom,” Sansa cackled to herself.

Gendry tried to catch his betrothed’s eye. “Arry, you won’t have to do that if you don’t want to.”

Arya huffed at that. “If I manage to replace the tea with some ale or even rum… I might be able to get through something like that,” she groaned.

“You will do just fine,” Sansa said, reaching over and patting her on the arm. “I know you will.”

“My Ladies, I guess congratulations are in order,” a familiar gravelly voice called out.

Jon, his sisters, and their men looked up. The Hound was standing before where Sansa and Arya were sitting. He had an ale tankard in one hand and was nonchalantly munching on a chicken leg and thigh in his other hand. “Thank you,” Sansa said carefully.

The Hound pointed to Gendry with his chicken. “This one’s a bit of a whingy cunt, but he’s a tough fighter and the girl seems to be in love with him, so there’s nothing else for it.”

“Appreciate the compliment,” Gendry said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

He then turned to Joren. “Don’t know much about him,” he said, pointing with his chicken and taking a moment for a gulp of ale. “Usually I’m no fan of knights, my cunt of a brother included, but maybe Northern knights are something different. I remember getting my first look at you a month or so ago and thinking ‘this one’s been through some shit.’”

“You thought right,” Sansa said, recognizing it as the roundabout compliment it was. “Was there anything else, Sandor?”

He turned to Arya. “You two are leaving early for Harrenhal, right?” he said, pointing to her and Gendry. They nodded. The Hound turned back to Sansa. “You heading south too?”

“With the army when it moves, yes,” she said. “I’ll need to be down there to represent the North among the other lords. Joren will remain in Winterfell and watch over things, make sure the preparations for the rest of winter continue.”

He nodded in return. “As much as I’d be keen on getting away from this glacier as soon as possible,” Sandor grunted, motioning to Arya and Gendry, “they likely can watch themselves. It might be good for you to have a sword around you that can watch out for things.”

Joren warily turned to Sansa. “Are you all right with that?”

She nodded. “I got to know Sandor in King’s Landing, after my father… he’s been helpful to me and Arya more than once. I can trust him… and Jon will be with us besides.”

Joren turned to Sandor. “Very well. Safe travels, Lord Sandor.”

“Gods, that’s about as bad as Ser,” the Hound groaned. “Well, good luck on keeping whichever of these whingy Northern bastards decide to stay up here, but maybe a proper bastard is needed to keep them in line,” he said. “I’ll watch over your wife until we get to King’s Landing, but then I’ll have business there with my brother.”

“Sandor,” Arya said. “When we both are in Harrenhal, come talk with me. I might have an idea for how you might take care of your business.”

“It’s a plan, then,” he replied. With that, he washed down another bite of chicken with some ale and headed toward Tyrion’s table.

“Oddly enough, of all the people I met in King’s Landing, I think in his own way Sandor Clegane was one of the most honorable and honest of them,” Sansa said.

“She’ll be all right with him around,” Arya replied. “He’s a cunt, but a righteous cunt, if that makes sense.”

“All right, then, if you’re okay with it, I…” Joren trailed off as he saw something on the other end of the Great Hall. “What the… fuck’s sake.”

“Something wrong?” Sansa said, laying her hand on his shoulder.

He shook his head, starting to get up from his seat. “It’s nothing, just – somebody’s here that I need to speak with. You can stay here… wait, actually, maybe you should come with me?”

She got up from her seat. “Of course. Who…?”

“I’ll explain when we get there,” he said, offering his arm. She took it and they stepped around from the main table and front dais to the main floor.

Jon turned his attention to Dany. “How is your meal tonight?”

She nodded. “The soup was wonderful, to be honest. The venison… not bad either, my stomach seems to be tolerating it… _Jon,”_ she said as he slid his hand across her cheek. “You don’t need to fuss over me…”

“Me not fussing isn’t going to happen,” Jon whispered. He fingered the pansy above her left ear. “These suit you more than a crown, to be honest. Brings out your eyes.”

She grinned as she leaned into his touch. “You remind me of this one mother cat hovering over her kittens in the home I stayed at in Pentos before I first got married.”

He took a deep breath as he continued to cup her cheek, and he didn’t care what anyone looking on might have thought of it. “I’ve never been a father before,” he whispered to her. “I look at you now and my heart starts racing, and my head starts thinking of everything that could go wrong. I want to protect you from everything that could hurt you, hurt… them.”

She put her hand over his on her cheek. “You might drive me to distraction, but please know I do appreciate it,” she said. “I love you, Jon.”

“And I you, Dany,” he said. As he leaned over and kissed her, there were a few ribald cheers and whistles from the Northerners and Freefolk looking on. “I do think you have a few well-wishers here, love.”

“Apparently,” she said, smiling.

“Your Grace, sorry for interrupting,” Jon heard from behind. He turned to see the hulking, white-bearded form of Lord Yohn Royce, bowing stiffly and decked out in his ancient bronze armor covered in runes.

“Lord Yohn,” Dany said as Jon turned to face him, “It’s wonderful to see you up and about.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” he said. “I was going to ask, King… Jon? Jaehaerys?”

“Either is fine, to be honest,” Jon said.

Yohn nodded. “Yes, King Jaehaerys. So, that was old King Robert’s boy, over there?” he said, pointing over to Gendry, who was deep in conversation with Arya when not eating. “You’ve legitimized him so he can take charge in the Stormlands?”

“Yes,” Jon replied. “He’ll rule alongside my sister after they get married.”

“Sensible,” Yohn said, “sensible. It’ll be a good way for us to take the Stormlands out of Cersei’s hands, for sure. Who are you reaching out to there?”

“In addition to Ser Davos, of course, we are contacting several, including House Selmy of Harvest Hall and House Tarth,” Dany said. “Lord Selwyn Tarth’s daughter is in our service, and Ser Barristan Selmy served me in Essos before his death.”

“Ah, yes,” Lord Yohn said, “Barristan the Bold’s great-nephew, Arstan Selmy, now leads House Selmy. Your Grace, I might also suggest sending a raven to House Dondarrion, as well. Ser Beric served you before his death, as I recall. A Ser Marran Dondarrion, one of his younger cousins, has apparently taken over leadership of the family.”

“We will make sure to contact him. Thank you for the suggestion, Ser Yohn,” Dany said. “Again, I am very glad to see you in better health.”

“Your Graces,” he said, bowing before returning to his knights’ table.

#

**Joren**

_Wait, is it him, really? Oh, of course it is,_ he thought as he approached the man standing at the far end of the hall.

The man was taller and slightly heavier than him, thirty years of age, and his hair was a lighter shade of brown than his and longer, coming down to his shoulders. His beard was of the same color, and longer than Joren’s as well. However, the two men shared the same heavy brow and jaw, and the same grey eyes.

“Ser Joren,” the man rumbled as Sansa and he stood in front of him, “perhaps you would like to make introductions?”

“Of course,” sighed Joren, raising his hand in greeting. “Princess Sansa, this is Lord Artos Flint of the Flints of the Mountains, my second-eldest brother,” he said. “Brother, this is Crown Princess Sansa Stark of House Stark… my wife.”

“M… Your Grace, a pleasure,” Artos said, bowing before her.

“Likewise, my lord,” Sansa said. “I didn’t know Joren had invited you to our feast…”

“Actually, he didn’t,” he said. “I was here to collect our men who were capable of traveling back to The Flintwatch. I just happened to come now.”

“To be honest, I wasn’t sure if you or Donnel would be willing to come if I did,” Joren replied.

Artos took a deep breath and lowered his head, nodding for a moment before meeting Joren’s eyes. “I can see how you might have thought that. Could you talk for a while?”

“Of course, you can take all the time you need,” Sansa said, bringing Joren’s hand up to her mouth for a kiss. “I’ll see you later. Lord Artos, it was good to meet you.”

“Likewise, Your Grace,” Artos said, bowing again. After she left, he stared after her departing form. “Brother, I once thought you were lucky to have discovered Lily, but this… this is some fucking madness from the Old Gods,” he said, chuckling, but then stopped when he saw Joren glare at him. “I’m sorry, I’m sure it’s still a tough thing for you. The ladies keep their graves well-maintained.”

“Thank you for that,” Joren said. He saw a passing maid with a tray full of ale tankards, and snagged two from her. “We might need these,” he said, passing one to Artos.

“You think?” Artos replied, taking a gulp. “I heard King Jon’s speech from here in the back. So, your woman is going to be Queen in the North?”

Joren nodded. “He will surrender his crown in the North to her when he and his wife lay claim to all Westeros.”

Artos grunted as he gestured toward Jon. “And what the hell is he doing walking around dressed as some bloody Valyrian dragonlord?”

“Short version is, he’s a son of House Stark, just not the Stark everyone thought, and his true sire was a Targ.”

“Fuck me,” Artos said as he drained his drink. Joren liberated a jug of ale from a nearby table and refilled Artos’ drink. “Whatever. So, how the hell did you manage to marry her?” he continued, pointing to Sansa, who had sat back down at the front table.

“Father said to serve her, and I did,” he said. “The more I was here, the more we talked. The more we did, the more we learned we had… complementary interests.”

Artos’ eyes narrowed as he regarded Sansa from afar. “She’s younger and taller, but I see a bit of Lily in her, for sure.”

“They had more in common on the inside,” he said, draining his tankard and refilling it. “They had the same heart, the same desire to do right. They’d… also gone through many of the same things.” He closed his eyes for a long time. “Over time, I wanted to take care of her.”

Artos chuckled at that, bending over and shaking his head. “And you tried to convince me before that you’re not a _true _knight. You’re full of shit, Brother.” He had to cough and clear his throat before he could continue. “So, that’s all it took to win her heart?”

“No, actually, to seal our pact, I had to save her life by wrestling a direwolf that was attacking her,” Joren said straight-faced.

Artos doubled over in laughter while keeping his mug level. “Fucking Hells,” he choked out, “you’re japing, aren’t you?”

“You don’t believe me, I’ll show you the scars later,” he said, draining his mug after he finished talking.

Artos stared at him for a few moments to try and figure out if he was joking. Finally shaking his head, he said, “So, you’re a member of House Stark, now. Leaving us behind?”

“No more than most women who enter their husband’s houses. _She’s_ not going to forget that she grew up a wolf,” he shot back, pointing at Arya Stark.

“So, it seems like _she’s _the one in charge,” Artos said, gesturing at Sansa.

“Aye, she’ll be the queen, and I’ll be her right arm.”

“And you’re all right with that?”

Joren leveled his gaze at his brother. “Yes, I am. I’m happier than I’ve ever been. Gods help me, but the only time I’ve been this happy was when Lily told me we were going to have a child. This is what I want, and it’s not like there’s a place with you or Donnel.” He huffed in frustration. “I guess I’m used to pissing him and you off; this won’t be any different.”

Artos drained his mug and refilled it. “I’ll tell you the truth, Brother, he might be happier with things than you might think.” He took another sip. “Donnel and I am going to be the goodbrothers of the Queen of the North. We’ll be the uncles of the future King of the North. You’ve brought our family far more prestige than anybody has for a long time. I’m sure Donnel will do what he can to help his Queen in return for favors from his brother. Since you have such importance as the Lord Protector of the North.”

Joren sighed as he embraced Artos. “Brother, I don’t want you to feel bad about yourself…”

“What are you talking about?” Artos said, laughing. “This is what life promised me, and I have not been disappointed. I am fine with Donnel being the head of our house and me working behind the scenes. And, I’m happy that you are happy. You are too good a person not to deserve it. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Is there any way you can leave Roster here? He’s still getting well, and I would prefer to have him by my side.”

“Are you sure, Brother? He’s still quite young.”

“He has ambition and a good head on his shoulders,” Joren said. “He could serve as _my_ right-hand man for a long time to come, and he seems to have affection toward me. Come on, Brother, allow me to build our court, at least.” When Artos didn’t react, Joren added, “Consider it a wedding present to me.”

_That_ caused Artos to double over in laughter and let his tankard clatter to the floor. “Oh, oh, my Gods…” Artos spluttered. “Even Donnel will get a laugh out of that.” He picked up his tankard, refilled it, and held it up in front of him. “To the bride and groom. May they prosper and be fruitful.”

Joren tapped his tankard to his. “May we prosper and be fruitful.”

#

**Daenerys**

She listened to the small band begin to play a tune, the instruments a mix of drum, fife, dulcimer, guitar, and fiddle. There were some among the Northerners signing along, but she could not make out the words. “What is that?” she asked Jon.

“Ah, that’s an old tune,” Jon said, “I remember it from my youth. It’s about Brandon the Builder traveling to meet the Children of the Forest and taking time to learn their True Tongue. He wanted their help to build the Great Wall.”

“It’s jaunty enough,” she said, holding up her hand to him. “Would you dance with your queen?”

“Aye, I would,” Jon said, taking her hand.

“You realize I have no idea how your Northern dances go.”

“Not a problem. I’ll lead, you follow.”

As they approached the small area of floor in front of the dais that was open to dancing, she saw that Sansa had coaxed Joren out on the floor, as had Arya with Gendry. With the pace of the tune, it seemed that you could dance to the tune either at a slower full time or a quicker double-time. Jon and Joren decided to go at the statelier regular time, while Arya decided to attempt the double-time despite Gendry’s relatively low dancing skills.

“What are you thinking of?” Jon asked her as they waltzed across the floor, their fellow dancers giving them plenty of space.

“I’m thinking of how happy you are here, in your home,” she said to him. “I’m thinking that our children will be as much of the First Men as they will be of Valyria. I’m thinking that it would be good for our children to visit here so that they remember their heritage.” She leaned against his chest as they danced. “What are you thinking of?”

“That I agree with you, and it would be a good idea to visit here as much as possible, but for the rest… You probably don’t want to know,” Jon said as they moved across the floor.

“Try me,” she said, grinning.

He closed his eyes, facing up toward the sky before returning to his wife. “I’m thinking of when you won’t be able to hide that you are carrying my babies,” he said. “I’m thinking of what people will think when they see how beautiful you look. You know what they’ll be thinking? They’ll look at you and wonder what it was like when your king got you with child. And Gods’ help me, but that turns me on just as much as looking at you does.”

She softly chuckled at that. “You’re serious?”

“More serious than I’ve ever been,” he said. “Dany? When… when do you think you fell pregnant?”

She had to think on that for a moment as they whirled around the dance floor. “I think… at least it had to happen before we reached White Harbor?”

“OK, good to know,” Jon said. “When the time comes and we want another child, we’ll have to let Ser Davos know that we’ll need him to make another ship available.”

She couldn’t contain herself and burst out laughing with her face against their chest as they danced. “You’re kidding.”

  
“My Queen, I am not,” he laughed along with her.

A long sliding fiddle chord signaled the end of the song. Jon saw Sansa laying her head against an awkward but game Joren, while a cackling Arya and Gendry skidded to a halt, she grabbing onto his arms to prevent her from toppling down from their momentum.

Jon sat down and kissed Dany as she sat back down beside him. Joren saw down and kissed Sansa’s hand as she took the seat of honor next to him. Nearly out of breath, Gendry flopped down on his chair. “Seven Hells, I don’t know how to deal with you at times,” he laughed.

He went _huff _as Arya leapt into his lap and wrapped her arms around his neck. “You know exactly how to deal with me,” she whispered, chuckling as she followed up with a kiss that appeared as if she was trying to devour her betrothed’s mouth.

A chorus of whistles, cheers, and table-pounding emanated from the tables closest by them by the time they disengaged, Arya glancing over at a somewhat pained but reserved Jon. “What?” she asked innocently as she chose to remain in Gendry’s lap for the moment.

Gendry appeared half-sheepish, half-overjoyed at his beloved’s attention and Jon’s gaze. Joren merely cocked an eyebrow at the display, but Jon was a bit surprised to see Sansa shake a finger at her sister while grinning maniacally in a way that left no doubt she thought the whole thing hilarious.

“Remember, she’s a grown woman, soon to be wed,” he heard Dany say in his right ear, her breath hot against it and the touch of her lips for a moment on his neck. “I think it bodes well for their marriage to come.”

Jon allowed himself to relax and finished off his mug of ale as he saw more of it on the way from the servants. “Aye, it’s true,” he said.

#

**Sansa**

“Ahhh, sorry, lass. I have to… go piss, actually,” Joren whispered to her, red-faced.

She let out a full-throated chuckle as she leaned back and ruffled the hair on his head. “Okay, go on with you.”

Gathering himself for a moment, Joren slid out of bed and padded naked to the other room. His wounds had healed by then, and a collection of ridged, jagged-line scars crossed diagonally over the left side of his back. However, she was paying more attention to the play of muscles in his backside and the backs of his legs as he moved away from the bed and into the other room. _Gods, I’m probably acting just like _Jon_ does with Daenerys, never mind Arya._

They had ducked out as the feast continued well into the early morning, and she silently thanked Jon for letting them do that rather than having people make a production of carrying them to the marital bed. She was gratified that her third wedding night was actually something special rather than a horror. For that, she had to thank the man sharing her bed that night.

She pulled the furs tight around her unclothed body as she tried to keep his seed from leaking out of her right away. The past three weeks had been an intense experience as she’d gotten to know Joren better and he her, both inside and outside of bed. In bed, he was a patient and cautious lover, but enthusiastic when he and she stumbled onto a caress or technique she enjoyed. Outside of bed, he was a surprisingly astute observer of the kingdom of the North and its needs, and she had enjoyed trading ideas with him regarding the kingdom’s future and what could be done to improve the lives of its citizens. After two weeks of feeling him out, she was assured that her initial instincts regarding her Northern knight seemed true.

“Amazing that this place is warm enough even as we’re deep into winter,” Joren said as he hurried back to bed.

“The hot springs do that well for us. I think one of the reasons my mother chose this for her chambers was because it was the warmest part of the castle,” she laughed.

She ogled – there was no other way of putting it – Joren’s lean, muscled form as he threw some of the covers back, but thrilled even more as he slid into bed with her and she enjoyed the excitement of laying skin to skin with her new husband. _Did you ever feel this way, Mother? Gods, I hope you did. Shame to have birthed five children and consider it a chore._

He gathered her into his arms and kissed her as she now came to lay on top of him. “Gods, but I’m going to miss you when you leave,” he said, and it warmed her to hear the truth in his words.

_“I’m _going to miss you when I leave, at least as much as my brothers and sister, and that’s saying something,” she said.

“I’ve heard so many songs about wives worrying about their husbands going off to war, and now I’m to stay at home while _you_ go off to war,” Joren said with a short laugh. “I understand why, but… it is a strange thing.”

“Please don’t worry yourself,” she said, stroking his cheek as she looked up at him from where her head lay on his chest. “I’m not Arya; I’m not going to be leading soldiers from the front. I’ll be well away from the action.”

“Pardon me if I disobey my future queen and still worry about you regardless,” he said, leaning down for a kiss.

She gave it to him without reservation. “I would feel the same way, so I understand,” she said. “Anyway, let’s change the subject for a bit. You were telling me the other day that _lumber_ might be the key to sparking a new prosperity for the North.”

Joren nodded, a bit surprised at the question but ready to answer. “The North will never produce enough food to be a supplier of other kingdoms,” he said. “We do not have the mines to trade metals with other places – certainly no gold, but I have heard enough about sources of copper, tin, and lead, even old mines not touched for many years, that might serve our local needs. But lumber, however – we have plenty of it, it does not run out like the mines, and there is great demand for our wood, especially ironwoods.”

Her red brows knitted as she considered the idea. “Well, you leave stumps instead of trees, correct? Eventually, I’ve heard of forests shrinking that way.”

“They shrink under bad management, not the way we did it in the mountains,” Joren said. “For every tree we sliced down, we tried to plant at least a half-dozen other seeds across the forests. We actually started to _grow_ the forests around us rather than shrink them. With a good replanting scheme and rangers tasked to watch out for over-logging, we could do the same throughout the North and keep a never-ceasing stream of lumber headed to market.”

“That makes sense, but how would you get the wood to a port? With all the dead from this war, there are few enough people and horses to haul them out of the forests.”

“It would be easier for us than you think, lass,” he said. “The major forests are all close to navigable rivers like the White Knife and Last River. All we must do is get the logs to the rivers, float them downstream until we get to the Shivering Sea, and then we can wrangle them to White Harbor or another sea port. From there, we could trade them to the Free Cities, Dragon’s Bay – Seven Hells, even as far as Yi Ti or the Shadowlands, I bet.”

_He’s not just a strong right arm,_ she thought. “That’s a pretty picture you paint.”

“I could even show you on the maps how it would work…”

Sansa stilled him with a finger on his lips. “That can happen later,” she said. “Right now, by the order of the Wardeness of the North, I’m confining you to these chambers and my bed until I depart.”

He kissed her finger before moving it from his lips. “And the reason for this is…?”

“I intend for you to get me with child before I leave for the south,” she said plainly, “and I will take every opportunity to do so before I leave.” She fixed him with those blue eyes that could be as cold as frozen steel or as bright as a summer sky depending on her mood. “If you fail to do so, when I return from the south, I plan to chain you to this bed and lay with you until your seed takes.”

That got Joren laughing as he pulled her closer and began to run his fingers through her auburn hair. “That really doesn’t sound like a threat – or, at least, it doesn’t sound like you’re threatening me with anything unpleasant.”

“It’s a promise,” she said. “I want children, and I want you to be their father.” She took in a shuddering breath before continuing. “I know how devoted you still are to… the memory of your daughter and your past wife. I know it would be the same for any babe of ours.”

“Aye, it would,” he said. “I’d like… I’d like you one day to come to Flintwatch with me, meet Donnel and my brother’s families, visit the graves of Lilly and Anna.”

“It would be my honor,” Sansa said. She had learned that his past family did not so much as crowd her out of Joren’s heart, but were her neighbors inside it.

“I love you, Sansa,” Joren said. “I’d have thought it was mad, but I do now, after everything. I hope you do the same.”

“I do love you,” she said, nodding. “It’s not quite fully formed, mind. It’s not quite a raging fire, but the start of the sparking and the smouldering just as the flames come to life. Just as important is the respect and trust I’ve built up for you during these months. It’s what we need to protect the fire, help it grow and maintain it.”

Joren kissed her again. “Good thing I’ve got experience in starting and tending fires.”

She chortled into his mouth as she began probing it with her tongue. “Aye, it is.”

#

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Yeah, the story expanded on me again. I'm not apologizing for it - I'm just going to let the story expand as it will. To be honest, I get nervous if I go too long without posting. I don't like those people who take long breaks on their writings (even though many of them have legitimate reasons for doing so). I went for years without writing myself and don't want to go back to those days of just staring at my computer screen and doing nothing but gaming or watching YouTube.
> 
> \- I started this story, and I aim to finish it. I love the feedback I get - the experience of writing this story has been like nothing I've ever experienced, and I appreciate every bit of it I get.
> 
> \- Glad to get more time to visit with the Hound again.
> 
> \- For those who think I shortchanged the big feast in this chapter, don't worry. It will be continued in the next chapter, because I know there's a bit more to cover before the Dragon Army/High Kingdom Army gets on the road. If you want a hint, here it is: The name of the next chapter will be Knights' Dance. ;)


	37. Knights’ Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before the Dragon Army journeys south, a drinking game and dance brings two knights together unexpectedly.

37.

**Jaime**

As he watched the children of Ned Stark dance across the floor of the Great Hall with their partners, the strangeness of the scene washed over him.

He’d never agreed with the Warden of the North’s execution, and certainly not with the plain murder of his wife and eldest son, despite being the enemies of his house. However, when he heard the news, he was ashamed to admit that he was filled with more than a little relief. His family was safe, more or less; they were in charge in King’s Landing, and whatever sins or betrayals he or his kin had been forced to make would be buried along with the dead Starks.

_What a difference four years made_, he thought. Ned’s bastard son – _nephew, whatever_ – was now proposing to take the Iron Throne with his Targaryen wife, and he realized he had a better chance at that than his sister did of keeping it. Sansa had evolved from a girl who knew fairy tales and songs of brave knights were real, to a traumatized, frightened young lady, to now the confident woman who was about to accept the crown of a nearly independent North. Arya Stark, who Jaime remembered as a mousy if outspoken tomboy with tangled hair and muddied clothes, had turned into the prospective ruler of the Stormlands and likely the deadliest killer in the Dragon Army. The legend of the Wild Wolf who helped her brother defeat the Others was growing every day.

He’d thought Lord Stark so naïve, but his children had turned into something different, something harder and more clear-eyed than their father had been. _Had they learned something from his mistakes? Had he taught them at their family gatherings, private counsels, to be better players at the game of thrones that he had been? Perhaps both?_

As for his family? It was now reduced to his brother on the opposite side of the table and his now insane sister and former lover holed up in the Red Keep. The father that had dominated and at times bullied him for his whole life had been gone for about three years, while the children he had loved from afar had passed on, one after the other, until there were none. If it were not for the faint hope of the fourth child in King’s Landing, he honestly wouldn’t care about the fate of his house, or whether it deserved one.

What remained of his family, blood or otherwise, was seated at the table with him. Next to Tyrion sat Serenei of Lys, the healer, and someone who, Jaime was learning, had a surprising awareness of politics and diplomacy.

She also happened to be a beauty to rival even Queen Daenerys. Jaime remembered how Tyrion had used to flaunt his whores, years ago, but here he was with a greater beauty than any of those and did nothing but to look after her and see to her comfort. It was a strange sight.

Bronn was on his left-hand side, acting positively pleased with himself as he downed his portion of the feast. Also, on the other side of the table, Missandei sat next to Serenei as Grey Worm was on her other side, cautiously sampling one of the red wines from the Reach.

To Jaime’s right was Ser Brienne, nursing her own goblet of red wine from the Reach. Ever since the Battle of the Long Night, there had been some form of _tension_ between them, but what kind he could not say for sure. It was hard for him to know for sure – other than Cersei, there had been no one in his life he could have claimed to fall in love with, and any dalliances he’d had with other women were rare to nonexistent compared to his brother.

There was a rumble and cheers that rang out when the Lady Arya lept onto her betrothed’s lap and gifted him with a passionate kiss. “Oh, they’re definitely fucking,” Bronn said as he toasted the couple.

Conversations at the table died out as all eyes went to the rogue knight. “What, I’m wrong or something?” Bronn replied, arms spread wide. Jaime and Brienne shared a quick look over their shared memory of what they’d seen in the Winterfell smithy. “Fuck’s sake, if she wasn’t already betrothed and I was… ten years younger, maybe, I’d try to have a go at her. Personally, I like a woman who’s dangerous.”

“I _might _keep that observation to yourself. I’m not sure she’d be as charmed, and she’s quite well armed,” Brienne said, eyebrow raised as she took another sip of wine.

“From the man, as well,” Grey Worm said. “I saw him crush a giant’s skull… one swing with a hammer. He’s not that skilled, but he’s fierce.”

“Well, certainly sounds like good advice to me,” Bronn said, downing his drink as most of his surrounding companions rolled their eyes. “I’m in too good of a mood to let that or anything else get me down.”

_He’s happier than a dragonrider in a Lysene whorehouse, _Jaime thought. After recovering from his injuries, he’d dutifully sketched out a map of the underground tunnels of King’s Landing, demonstrating how they connected the Red Keep with the rest of the city, and where he’d observed the wildfire stashes. Tyrion and Lady Arya had confirmed his work to the best of their knowledge, which also included several hidden entries that would allow raiders to bypass the walls and enter the tunnels.

For this and other services to the crown, Bronn had been named Ser Bronn of House Blackwater, Lord of the Twins. Bronn not so secretly found it hilarious that a man named Blackwater would rule on the Green Fork, but it was no concern to him. In one fell swoop, he had not one but two castles, located at a historically important and lucrative river crossing. Bronn had happily sworn to Their Graces that he would keep the tolls at reasonable, if still premium, rates. He also happily agreed to stay behind in the Twins as leader of the Dragon Army’s forces in the northern Riverlands, to ensure that the army’s supply chain remained intact. “Being a rear guard suits me fine, to be honest,” he admitted to Tyron at the time. Both Tyrion and Jaime admitted that Bronn had more than done his part for the realm.

The main question that was on Bronn’s mind was who he might consider as a future wife to help grow the fledgling House Blackwater. Their Graces had suggested that perhaps one of the female members of House Frey might be a possibility. Bronn hadn’t rejected the idea out of hand, but he was truly pining for a Dornish nobleborn woman. On behalf of Their Graces, Tyrion had promised to make some inquiries among the Dornish nobles once they got to Harrenhal.

“Well, I have to admit the bride does look lovely this evening,” Serenei commented.

“She looks happy,” Missandei said of her new friend.

“She certainly deserves it,” Tyrion sighed. “I still have memories of the night she married _me_. Poor girl was miserable and in shock the entire evening.”

“At least you did not add to her pain,” Serenei said, laying a hand on his forearm. “That means something to women.”

“Well, I did not _directly_ add to her pain, at least. After all, I did marry her, although she was safe from me.” He shook his head. “Anyway, enough with the bad memories. Let us take our minds away from such things. We’re probably stuck here for at least another hour until my former wife decides to turn in for the night. It would be a shame just to pass the time only feasting.”

“What do you have in mind…?” Jaime began.

“Oh, Seven Hells, Ser Bronn, remember that drinking game we once played? It seems now would be as good a time as any to revive it. Jaime, you remember it, don’t you? Well, we’ll get started – might as well involve the ladies and the lady knight as well.

“This is how the game is played,” Tyrion continued, making sure everyone’s tankard or goblet around him was filled with some form of alcohol. “We go around in turn, and each person asks if something they think about them is true about them. If they are correct, the person being asked the question must take a drink. If they are wrong, the one asking the question has to take a drink.”

“How does one _win_ this sort of game, Lord Tyrion?” Serenei asked.

“Well, that would likely be either the one who is the least drunk or the most drunk, depending on a person’s point of view,” Tyrion replied. “However, the main idea of the game is to relax and have fun, to learn something new about your companions. Here, I’ll start out.” He turned to Bronn, pointing at him with the same hand he was holding his goblet in. “You would marry both one of the Frey girls and a Dornish girl if you thought you could get away with it.”

Bronn shrugged and took a deep sip. “What can I say? I’ve got no idea why the Targs should have all the fun.” He turned to Jaime. “That golden hand of yours attracts all the ladies. Truth?”

Jaime slowly shook his head. “I wouldn’t know,” Jaime said. “I haven’t been particularly looking.” Bronn dutifully took a drink as Jaime turned to Serenei. He saw how close she was to Tyrion, not in a territorial way, but they were certainly comfortable with each other. _I need to get some sort of idea of who this woman is. Tyrion’s a grown man, but… he’s still my brother. _“You have an interest in having a family someday,” he stated.

Serenei leaned back in her chair, sporting a sardonic grin. “I’m taking a half-drink,” she replied, “and I’ll tell you why in a second.” After she did, holding her finger up toward Jaime, she set her goblet down. “Frankly, I’m not interested in having a family,” she said. “Children are fine in the abstract, and fun to visit, and I enjoyed being a midwife. I also loved hanging around my sister as a child. But raising them? Forget it. However, part of that is because the choice is not truly mine. I’m positive I can’t have children. That’s why I took half a drink.”

A chill ran through Jaime. _Suddenly this game’s turned quite serious. _Taking another drink unbidden, he asked, “how do you know…?”

“…my master attempted to breed me with some Lysene warriors, as he had my mother,” Serenei said, eyes boring straight ahead, hinting at no emotions. “It never did take. After a while, maybe a year, they gave up. I decided to forgo the moon tea we always had for after we saw clients, and nothing happened then, either. I know.” She snorted as she saw Jaime having trouble meeting her eyes. “Don’t concern yourself with my feelings, Ser Jaime. I accepted my fate many moons ago.” She turned to her side and looked straight at Tyrion. _“You _would wish to have a family.” Her ice-blue eyes widened as he shook his head. After she dutifully took her sip, she responded, “I don’t get that. Aren’t you highborn supposed to want to carry on the family line, all of that shit?”

_“That, _Serenei of Lys, is a very good question,” Tyrion replied, draining his goblet and reaching over to refill it. “You have to consider the _family _that we are talking about. As I mentioned before, upon my birth, my mother was dead and my father resented me for it always. So did my sister, for that matter. Jaime was the only one who tolerated me. I grew up in a family where family was the vehicle of ambition, not love. To be honest, if it were not for the unborn, innocent babe in my sister’s womb, that _might_ have a chance at a normal life, I would be content to let House Lannister die out.

“But there are at least two other reasons,” Tyrion continued. “Frankly, I never was that comfortable with children except in smaller doses. I was much more comfortable being the fun-loving uncle than I ever was a father figure, especially considering who my father was.” He looked over at Jaime, and his brother realized that there was nearly as big of a hole in Tyrion’s heart for Myrcella and Tommen, at least, as there was in his. “Finally, there is this.” Tyrion said, both hands drawing an invisible line down the length of his body.

“What does being a dwarf…?” she began.

“As a young man, I discussed the issue of dwarves with the maesters of both Casterly Rock, and later, those of King’s Landing,” he replied. “There are many mysteries to the origins and secrets of dwarfdom. However, one of the things that the maesters agreed upon is that the most likely source of dwarves were dwarf _parents_. That would make sense, of course, the seed of dwarves creating like creatures?”

“Tyr…”

“My parents, whatever their flaws, had no idea that they would give birth to a dwarf. _I _have no such luxury.” Tyrion’s emerald green eyes blazed as he stared out into the distance, a hundred scenes from his past life seemingly flashing before him. “I am proud of what I have made myself into, despite my disadvantages. However, I would not knowingly sentence any child to the pain and anguish I suffered in the process.”

There was silence at the table for a long beat. Finally, Tyrion looked down as he saw Serenei take his hand in hers, blinking away what might have been a tear. “Enough of that, I think,” he said. He turned back to Bronn. “I believe that if you truly knew who your mother was, you would be willing to kick her for a gold galleon.”

Bronn shook his head, forcing Tyrion to take another drink. “I’d do the deed for a silver stag, to be honest.” He turned to Ser Brienne. “You are a maid, I would wager.”

Brienne had been taking a small sip of her ale, but spit it out at those words, horror creeping across her face. “I… I…”

Jaime’s stool scraped across the floor as he got to his feet. “Ser Brienne,” he said, snarling in his former sellsword’s direction, “there’s a new song starting soon. Would you have this dance with me?”

Those words disoriented her as much as those of Bronn’s. “I don’t…”

“I insist, Ser. It would be my honor,” he added, hoping that she would accept the out that he was providing. He held his left hand out to her. “Please?”

Closing her eyes, she nodded and stood up. “Very well.” She accepted his hand and stood up herself as they headed out to the open floor.

“I’m sorry?” Bronn said to their backs, only half-convincingly.

“Missandei, Grey Worm, why don’t you join us? I’m sure Ser Bronn will be much more well-behaved from now on,” Tyrion said, glaring daggers in the direction of his old champion.

“Absolutely,” Bronn agreed, realizing when he was whipped, as Missandei and Grey Worm gingerly scooted closer to the players.

#

**Brienne**

Brienne’s eyes darted all around as she allowed herself to be led out to the floor by Jaime. She went along with it for a moment, then stopped and took hold of Jaime by both shoulders so she could meet his emerald green eyes with her sapphire ones. “What do you mean by this?” she hissed at him, soft enough so no one could overhear. “What, are you trying to spare my feelings, like Renly did all those years back…?”

“Perhaps in part, but I also wanted to be alone with you for once, even if it is with everyone watching,” Jaime insisted, taking her hand in his left and pressing his gold hand into her other. “Besides, don’t you hear? The minstrels are about to play our song.”

“What in Seven Hells are you on about…?” she started to say until she heard the fiddles, mandolins, and guitars of the band strike up and the lyrics waft from first the band and then the crowd:

_A bear there was, a bear, a bear!_

_All black and brown, and covered with hair._

_The bear! The bear!_

She snorted with laughter for a moment as her arms encircled his neck. “Harrenhal. The bear pit.”

“I thought it was appropriate, at least,” Jaime said.

“What would I be? The Bear, or the Maiden Fair?”

“What do _you_ think? I believe it’s the latter, myself. Let us dance?”

“Fine,” she grumbled, allowing him to lead her along. There had been one or two dance teachers on Tarth, desperately attempting to teach her some of the graces of proper ladies before her introduction to society. She remembered enough of that, and what Renly had shown her then, to not seem totally hopeless.

As she ambled along the populated dance floor along with Jaime, she glared directly at him. “Brings back some hard memories, of Renly and what he did to look out for me,” she whispered. “I’m glad he did, but… it was such a sad time. And his presence isn’t helping,” she added, turning to the front table.

Jaime saw her staring at the large man to the right, distracted by the cackling chestnut-haired lady he had in his lap. “The smith?”

“There’s plenty of Robert in him, but more than a little of Renly, as well. Not that he can help that.” She turned back to Jaime. “What do you want of me?”

“Whatever you can provide,” he whispered. “You occupy my thoughts, whenever I have a spare moment. You are more than a _friend, _I am sure now, but what that means...”

They glided across the floor as the song continued:

_Oh, I’m a maid, and I’m pure and fair!_

_I’ll never dance with a hairy bear!_

_A bear! A bear!_

_I’ll never dance with a hairy bear!_

“Would you come with me, to my chambers?” Jaime asked as they continued to move freely across the floor, ignoring the odd curious stare from the crowd, especially from Tyrion and those at his table. “I need to talk with you alone.”

“I though Cersei was highest in your thoughts,” Brienne replied.

“She is my _past_,” Jaime pleaded. “My only concern regarding her is our babe. If there is even the slightest chance of it living, I must see if I can find it. That and how I feel about Cersei are two different things altogether. Please, would you come with me?”

_Then she sighed and squealed and kicked the air!_

_My bear! She sang, My bear, so fair!_

_And off they went, from here to there,_

_The bear, the bear, and the maiden fair!_

As the fiddles and string instruments sang to their stopping points, Brienne regarded Jaime with wary eyes. “This isn’t some sort of trick, is it, Jaime? Some sort of jape I can’t see?”

“I’ve got no time or desire to jape about things like this,” Jaime said. “Will you come?”

She finally nodded. “Aye,” she huffed.

#

**Jaime**

The female knight seemed almost as unsure of herself as a maiden ten years her junior as she followed him across the courtyard and to the castle’s guest quarters. “Gods, this feels like sneaking out from home with our parents not the wiser.”

“Don’t worry so much, Ser Wench,” he cackled. “My parents are dead and your father’s halfway across the continent.”

They opened the doors to the guest quarters and started to make their way up the stairs to Jaime’s room on the second floor when they heard whispering down the upcoming hallway. “Wait,” Jaime said, holding Brienne back.

He crept around and eased his head through the door enough so he could see down the hallway. He was surprised to see Lord Ned Umber and the wildling leader’s daughter – _Amanda, wasn’t it? Munda?_ – deep in conversation.

“What’s going on?” Brienne said, creeping up behind them.

“Hold on, I can’t tell,” Jaime said. The young lord appeared to be more than a little nervous in the presence of the wildling girl who was the same height as him and visibly annoyed.

“Are you sure about this?” he heard Ned say.

“Come _on_,” groaned Munda, who threw her hands up in frustration. “If you want to go through with it, you’re going to have do this. It’s not Freefolk way otherwise.”

“I don’t want to _hurt_ you, Munda…” he said, shaking his head.

She sidled up to him, her smile mocking him for his caution, until she stood face to face with him, hands on her hips and elbows out in a show of defiance. “What, I thought you said you were tougher than that. I _saw _you being tougher than that during that bloody battle. Or, is it me you’re chicken of?”

Jaime could see a dark cloud pass over the young lad’s face as he scowled at her. Suddenly, he dove down and tackled her by the waist, dragging her to the ground.

“What the hell…?” Jaime whispered. He made a move to go into the hallway, to try and stop the attack, but was surprised at Brienne pulling him back to the stairwell, hissing “wait.”

“What?”

“Just wait a second,” Brienne said.

Jaime looked back into the hallway to see Ned pinning Munda on the floor, belly-first, struggling to force her arms behind her back. He could see her throwing some elbows at him and the odd kick, but there was a strange lack of urgency in her struggles, and her face showed no hint of fear or dread, despite the odd muttering of “fucking cunt.”

After a few moments, Ned got her hands tied together and somehow managed to get her up into a standing position, trying and failing to avoid random kicks to his legs and groin. He somehow hefted Munda onto his right shoulder and started to walk down the hall, her head facing behind him.

Unnoticed by Ned, Munda looked up and her blue eyes widened in shock as he saw Jaime and Brienne looking on from the other end of the hall. A self-conscious grin spread across her face. “Don’t worry, I’m fine,” Jaime saw her mouth to him and Brienne. “I’ll be all right.” Not noticing the two knights, Ned pulled the door to one of the sleeping chambers open and carried her inside.

Jaime turned around to face a surprisingly calm Brienne staring down the hallway. “What in Seven Hells was _that_ business about?”

“It was something that Tormund told me about when we traveled from Castle Black to Winterfell, a tradition of the Freefolk,” she murmured. “When a Freefolk man wishes to take one of their women for a wife, what he does is steal her from her home and take her to his. If the woman doesn’t stop him, that means she is his bride.” She snorted. “I honestly think he was telling me what _he _had in mind for me. He was halfway considering it, but I believe he decided it might be a bit dangerous for him.”

He put together her meaning in his head. “So, the boy’s now that girl’s husband, and she his wife? After _kidnapping _her?”

“According to Freefolk ways, yes,” Brienne said. “And I don’t think it was as straightforward as that. He seemed quite reluctant to rough her up and she seemed eager to get taken away, don’t you think? ‘Don’t worry, I’m fine.’ _Pssh. _It’s mad as hell, I admit, but they seemed all right with it.”

“Both of them are four and ten… though I’ve seen a few highborn weddings between a boy and girl that young. Still…” Jaime shook his head.

“I think _he _was wondering what would happen the next time he met Tormund Giantsbane and had to introduce himself as his goodson,” Brienne said. “Come on, we’ll let Tormund deal with it. You had some place to take me, correct?”

Jaime shook his head to clear it. He pointed toward his chambers near to the stairway. “Come on, then.”

#

She followed him into his chamber. It was almost barren in its simplicity, with a large but simply made bed in the middle and left of the room, a fireplace at the ready but not lit, while two large white candles kept light in the room, and a workmanlike chair and writing desk off to one side. There was a small table nearby the fireplace, with two more chairs next to it and a decanter of wine in the middle of the table, flanked by two copper goblets.

“Let me get the fire going,” Jaime said. As he did so, Brienne stood in the middle of the room, looking around at everything and nothing. With a few sparks of steel and flint, Jaime was satisfied with the flames jumping from the tinder and got up. “They say the hot springs underneath Winterfell keep this place warm – they’re not wrong about that,” he said, shedding his red leather jacket and hanging in on the chair. “You mind if I take this off?” he said, pointing to his golden hand.

She focused her eyes on him, nonplussed. “If you’d be more comfortable, Jaime, of course.”

With that, he began to pull at the straps and rigging that held the gold talisman to his forearm. “I never did like this ostentatious trinket – it was all Cersei’s idea. Gold for Lannister and all that rubbish, and our gold mines all but run out. Rubbish.” With one last pull of a strap, he tugged it free and sat it down on his desk, staring at the smooth, scarred, but healed stump of his right forearm. “If I have to have a fake hand, I could do with one that had some function to it.”

“Perhaps ask the maesters around here if they have any ideas. That wheeled chair of Lord Brandon’s was a good thing for him,” Brienne said behind him. “Or, maybe ask Gendry. He seems to be a bit creative minded when it comes to smithing.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, thanks.” He turned around to face Brienne. “Go ahead, help yourself to some wine.”

Normally, she would defer from that. but this time, she filled up one of the goblets and took a long sip. “Thanks.”

He looked her over as he approached her. She was wearing a long brown leather jacket with a leather skirt over her dark brown leather trousers, with black boots reaching up just below her knees and heels prominent enough to fit stirrups. He had a flashback to the baths where she stood up in anger at his self-pitying and he confessed what had happened the day he became the Kingslayer. He remembered her long, white body, unafraid before him, and he felt a stirring in his groin that he recognized but did not expect at all. “Sit down, relax,” he said to her, as he sat down at one of the chairs at the wine table.

“What are you seeking?” she asked him.

He looked up at her as he plopped down by the table. “In my life, I’ve had only three women that have meant anything to me,” Jaime said. “First, there was my mother, who gave life to me, but her absence for much of my life influenced it as much as her presence.” He poured as much as could into his goblet and drained half of it in a single gulp. “Then there was Cersei. I thought there was nobody I could love as much as her,” he said. “I was willing to disobey all of the vows I made, all of my promises, to love her more than anything else. And I gave her children when she wanted them. But she cared not for our children in the end, but only for herself.”

“So, the third woman was…”

“_You._ Only you,” he breathed more than spoke. “I’d given up on honor. I’d given up on being a better man. I’d thought that I’d be damned to the Seven Hells. I’d thought there was no honor in this world. That is, until, I met you.”

“What… what about me…?”

“You reminded me what honor was,” Jaime said. “You reminded me about what it truly meant to be a knight. That’s why I knighted you before the battle, because you were the ideal knight I wanted to be. You reminded me of the man that _I_ could be. The man I wanted to be when I was a young boy. You made me want to be a better man, a man that would be… worthy of you.”

“Then, what do you want?” Brienne asked. “What do you want from me…?”

“I want _you,” _Jaime said, standing up and taking her by the shoulder. “I want you… and damn the Seven or whoever would look down upon you, down upon us. After everything that I’ve denied myself, after everything I’ve left unsaid, the world has taught me that there’s no use in denying yourself something that can get taken away from you in an instant. I’m tired of fighting off feelings I’ve been trying to deny for Gods’ know how long.”

They were standing face to face in front of the hearth. From the fire and the candles, he could see her sapphire eyes shimmering with excess moisture, the light dusting of reddish freckles under her eyes and across the snub nose that he found endearing rather than off-putting. “Jaime…”

“I love you,” Jaime said as he closed the rest of the gap between them.

His lips met with hers as he rose to meet her face. He used his right arm to encircle her waist while he reached up to touch the side of her face with his hand. His lips played across hers, not probing, and he couldn’t help but smile as her lips began to move underneath his.

Finally, they broke apart. “I’d not wanted to admit it, not wanted to hope…," she said, her voice shaking. "Jaime… I’ve not ever made love to a man.”

“Well, that puts us in a similar situation, then,” Jaime said, still cupping her cheek with his hand. “I’ve never made love to a knight before. I understand they have only the best of manners in the bedroom.”

“Truly?” she said after a burst of nervous laughter, looking away for a moment.

“Truly,” he insisted. Jaime pointed toward the bed with his handless arm. “Come with me.”

She followed him to the bed. Jaime threw the quilts and covers off the bed. “Sit down.” Brienne did as he bid. “Go ahead and undress yourself. It’s going to take me a minute,” he added, holding up his stump as an explanation.

Brienne seemed surprised but nodded. “Of course.”

At first, he hopped around as he wrestled one boot off, but then he took a seat on a nearby stool to wrench off the other one. He heard the _thud _of her boots hitting the floor before he finished with his own. He noticed his hand was shaking and he had to look down the front of his chest to see the buttons on his shirt to undo them properly.

After an interminable few moments, his hand finished with the task, and he stood up to wrestle his shirt off his shoulders. Now clad in just his trousers, he reached down to his waist… when he felt her strong but elegant hands, the size of his own, grasp the waistband of his trousers. “Let me.”

He looked up. She stood next to him, totally naked in the firelight. He took in her long, muscled, and perfectly shaped arms and legs, broad shoulders, slim torso. Her breasts were modest for a woman her size, but they had a perfect round, firm shape with pale pink nipples growing hard from the cold or something else. She was making no effort to hide them or the wide triangle of blond fuzzy hair at her groin. “All right,” he said.

She kneeled in front of him as her fingers worked at the laces of his trousers. From there, he could see the lines of her exquisitely-rounded bum as she leaned forward, as shapely as he’d seen on any other woman. There was the odd scar or two on her alabaster skin, but nowhere near the amount he sported after twenty-odd years of knighthood.

Brienne slid his trousers down his legs and he stepped out of them, but she held him in place, both hands on his backside. She stared at his gradually hardening member, hovering now right before her face. She glanced up to meet his eyes, and without a word Brienne bent down and began kissing the head of his cock.

His breath became ragged at once, and his cock completed its hardening process within a couple moments. After a while, she paused in her movements, as if in thought. She looked up at him again, a far more mischievous glance than Brienne had ever given him before. Again without speaking, she leaned over and now took his cock into her mouth.

A moan escaped him before he could even think to stifle it, and he was glad she had hold of him because the wave of warmth spreading through his groin and pelvis were threatening to leave him wobble-legged. As she slowly eased more of him into her mouth, he japed, “Suppose I’ll have to call that The Knight’s Kiss.”

The sensation of her laughing around his member almost undid him right there and then, and he used his hand and stump on her shoulders to gently ease her away from him. She looked up at him, worried. “Something wrong…?”

“Something almost too good,” Jaime said as he began to recover himself. He held out his hand. “Come join me in bed.”

She followed him and laid down first, a long line of lovely alabaster white goodness down the length of the bed. Brienne held out a hand to him, her face and body relaxed and calm. “I’m ready,” she said.

“I’m definitely ready,” Jaime breathed. He took her hand and held it up to his lips for a kiss. Setting it down on the bed, he then moved toward the foot of the bed and took her right foot in his hand. Lifting it up, he saw it was at least the size of his own, but with long, graceful toes and a soft sole.

“What are you… _ah.” _It was her turn to gasp as he laid a forceful kiss on the sole of her foot. Words fled from her fully as Jaime saw her begin to shudder as his lips drew a line from her ankle and calf, up to her knee and then her inner thigh. As he did that, he crawled onto the bed with her. The lightest of nips from his teeth on one section of her thigh caused her to yelp in shock, pain, and pleasure as he positioned himself between her legs, an arm over each of her thighs.

“Jaime,” she said, finally recovering her voice, “Jaime, what… _ooooohh.”_

She moaned louder than he had a few moments past as she felt his tongue draw a line up her slit from bottom to top. Brienne stared at him in wonder as she felt his lips cover her between her legs and his tongue begin to play with her nub at the top. “What are you…”

Jaime’s head darted up. “You want me to stop?” both his emerald gaze and voice teasing.

“Gods, no,” she grunted. “Keep going… I want… _ohhhh.”_

He continued, softly fingering her bud as he probed deeper up and down inside her. He could tell the waves of pleasure were beginning to wash over her by how he felt her legs and toes flexing and twitching across his back and her cries growing ever louder. He spent what felt like an eternity down there, trying to be ever patient, wanting to make sure her first experience was something she did not regret.

He felt her hands hold his head in place between her legs. His mouth suddenly flooded with a salty wetness that came from her. The resulting shriek from Brienne reminded him of an identical one she’d emitted during the heat of battle, and the thought made him so hard as to be almost aching.

He allowed her to pull him up her body until they were facing each other. To his shock, she bent down and kissed him with her wetness still very much across his mouth and face. If she noticed anything he could not tell. “Please,” she shuddered, “I want… now, please. I want to.”

“Are you sure?” he said, positioning himself between her thighs.

“Yes,” she said, arms encircling his back. “Go ahead.”

With his one hand, he started to guide himself toward her opening. “I want to be careful…”

“Just go on,” she said, pulling him in closer. “Please.”

With that, he felt himself enter her, his moan drowned out by a surprised yelp from Brienne as he slowly buried the full length of his cock inside her passage, her nails digging into the backs of his shoulders for a moment. “Are you all right?” he whispered as he tucked her right arm behind her head, his one hand touching her cheek again.

A stunned Brienne stared at him, her short straw hair now as undone and messy as unbaled hay, but then a slow grin spread across her face. “Honestly? It hurt a lot more getting kicked in the crotch.”

He groaned as her wet walls tightened around him, snugger than any that he’d ever felt before. “Seven Hells, I’m not going to last long.”

“I’m _that_ good?” she said, cackling as she stroked his face.

“Indeed you are, Ser,” he breathed.

He could feel the vibrations of her laughter through her center as he slowly started to move inside her. She used her arms to pull her down to kiss him, and to his surprise, he felt her deliciously long legs close around his waist. He looked back to see her holding him, ankles locked together, and using all four limbs to embrace him. He looked back at a grinning Brienne. “It… just made sense.” Sapphire eyes now blazing, she now turned serious. “If you’re going to fuck me, go on.”

Jaime nervously laughed as he her right breast in his hand and thumbed her fully erect nipple. “I do that, and this will be over quickly.”

“Then do it and let me feel it… oh, yesss,” she hissed as he suddenly thrust forward.

“As Ser commands,” he laughed as he continued to rock back and forth inside her. _Gods, she’s so tight… is she squeezing me with her _pussy_? No, it can’t be…_

He thought he would only last for a few thrusts as they both moaned in unison, but he managed around two dozen before he froze inside her. “Fuck!” he groaned as his buried cock spasmed more than a dozen times inside her, spilling his seed deep. As he shuddered on top of her, unable otherwise to move, he heard her shriek as he felt her twitch around him in response, nails digging into his back for a different reason.

After a long silence, he felt him slide out of her as her legs flopped down to rest. He nestled down to the left of her, his right arm still underneath her head, as they stared at each other wordlessly. _I love this woman, _Jaime thought, and judged the absolute truth of the statement.

Hesitantly at first, Brienne leaned over and kissed him once more. “Jaime? I… I love you, too.”

Jaime chuckled as he gathered his lady knight into his arms. “Well, I guess you’re in for it, now.”

“I guess,” she said as she kissed him on the nose. “Jaime… that was… really wonderful, I wanted you to know. I could tell you enjoyed it, of course…”

“You think?” He kissed her nose right back. “Ah, it was grand.”

#

He woke up with his hand running through her spectacularly tangled straw-colored hair cut short against her head. _The wench may have put me off long-haired women for good._ With half her face hidden in a pillow, one sapphire eye opened and he saw half of a smile form. “Morning,” she mumbled.

“Morning, Bri,” he said, leaning over and kissing her on her golden brow.

She was in a good mood as her head rose to look at him, but he could tell she was thinking of something. “Jaime… I want to know… you’re planning on going to King’s Landing, aren’t you? To sneak in, see if you can find the baby, if it’s there?”

Jaime nodded as he touched her cheek. “Not right away, but before the army gets there and the fighting starts. I’ll have to sneak in… and Tyrion, as well.”

“Tyrion?” she said, surprised.

“Him and that Lysene healer that he’s been making time with,” Jaime clarified. “They think her sister is in one of Littlefinger’s old brothels on the Street of Silk. They want to get her to safety before anyone sets off any wildfire. We’ll send them off, then get to the Red Keep.”

Her eyes held his gaze. “I’m coming with you when it’s time.”

“I would have it no other way,” Jaime said. “Do you not know? From now until my last day, I will need my true knight by my side whenever I go into battle.”

“You are as true as any knight there is,” she said, and pulled him into her embrace.

“I’m trying to be, at least,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. People, I give you Braime. You're welcome.
> 
> 2\. Everyone, I did not expect to take this long with a chapter. I was blocked for a whole week trying to figure out how to deal with the whole drinking game scene and how long it was going to be. One bit of advice, if you're having trouble getting your head around a scene, try and cut it in half and see if that doesn't make it easier to handle.
> 
> 3\. The more I think about it, the more I'm glad I added that little scene with Tyrion and Serenei. I'm a sucker for romance and the kids that sometimes come with it, but I wanted to acknowledge that there are certainly partners who decide they are perfectly happy not to have kids. Before this story is over, we're going to see three other familiar characters who build a slightly different than normal family than most.
> 
> 4\. And with this chapter, we will finally be taking our leave of Winterfell for a while. Pretty soon, we will see the Dragon Army/Army of the High Kingdom making its triumphant arrival at Harrenhal, which I think I might show from an unexpected point(s) of view. Before that, however, some of our friends are going to make a side trip to the Neck and a floating castle in the next chapter.


	38. Greywater Watch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya and Gendry accompany Bran to meet an old friend in the Neck.

38.

**Arya**

She was at a full gallop when the ducks flew overhead.

She rode ahead of their traveling party, her knees and her feet in the stirrups the only things guiding the black mare with the white diamond marking on her head, whom she’d decided to name Starlight. Her hands were filled with a Dothraki-made compound bow and dragonglass arrow, aiming up at the skies and the uneven V-shaped formation of waterfowl. _Mind their direction, the path of the arrow…_

She loosed the arrow. It flew up at a high angle and pierced through the body of the duck at the farthest end of the formation. Carried by its own momentum and the force of the arrow, it fell to the ground in a shallow arc, landing on the western edge of the Kingsroad causeway just out of reach of the thick, tree and moss-filled swamps of the Neck and any lurking lizard lions or snakes.

“Yes,” she shouted, brandishing her bow in the air in triumph. She reined in Starlight to a stop right next to the duck. Making sure it was dead, Arya removed the arrow and lifted the duck into a sack tied to the back of her saddle that already contained two other ducks.

Huffing with exertion, Lord Howland rode to a stop next to her. “A good day’s hunt, my lady?”

“Indeed,” she said, hanging her bow across her back as she finished putting the mallard away. “Roast duck tonight for supper.”

“The boys will have to show you how we serve birds up here in the Neck,” Lord Howland said.

“Can’t wait,” she said, mounting Starlight.

#

That evening, Arya, Gendry, Bran, Lord Howland, and the crannogmen encamped in a narrow line of tents along the western side of the Kingsroad causeway. Lookouts kept an eye open for any unruly animals making landfall while the remainder ate and rested.

“I have to say, that sweet sauce the cooks used on the ducks was as good as you claimed, my lord.” Arya sat by the fire, dinner now finished, sitting down with her back against Gendry, who himself was leaning up against a fallen tree truck at his back. Bran, who was slowly regaining his strength, had already turned in to his tent to sleep.

Across the bonfire from the couple, Howland stared into the fire with his dark green eyes and a small smile, drawing his forest green cloak around himself as he sat on the ground as well. “Glad it met your approval, my lady.”

“Lord Howland? When do you think we’ll arrive at your keep?” Gendry asked. It had been a week since they had left Moat Callin.

“We’re getting close to the spot where we’ll leave the Kingsroad and break out the boats,” Howland said, nodding to the flat-bottom craft gathered in a line between the camp and the swamp. “To keep our privacy, we don’t advertise where that spot is, but I’ll know it when I see it. From there it will be a day’s paddle, two at the most, until we get to Greywater Watch. Not too many people ever see the headwaters of the Green Fork.”

“That’s nothing; I once paddled a boat from Dragonstone all the way to King’s Landing,” Gendry said. “My shoulders ache whenever I recall the trip, but I _was_ avoiding getting sacrificed to a flame god.” He saw Arya staring off toward the swamp. “What is it, Arry?”

She pointed at a clump of purple flowers near the water’s edge. “When we traveled to King’s Landing, I picked flowers for my father all along the way. I grabbed an armful of those for him when we passed through the Neck.”

“Poison kisses, my lady?” Howland said. “More than likely you picked up a rash from those lovelies.”

“All over my neck, top of my chest, and arms,” she said, chuckling at the memory. “I had to eventually cover myself with mud to stop itching.”

“Not too much different from how you usually looked back then,” laughed Gendry, who got a smack on the top of his head for his jape.

She turned around to look at him, puzzled. “I meant to ask you, what were you doing in the crypts just before we left?”

“I… I wanted to talk with him,” he said, and Arya knew immediately he meant Father. “I wanted to let him know our plans, somehow get his blessing, some way… I don’t know. When I met him in King’s Landing, I never thought… I’d be part of his family. Part of yours.”

She leaned against him, let him hug her tighter to him. “Thank you, Bull,” Arya said, not minding that they used their names for each other in front of Lord Howland. She wiped at the corner of her eye. “Gods, you’d think I’ve cried enough for him by now.”

“If I may, my lady, true grief never really goes away, like the people you have lost,” Howland said, saddened eyes now regarding her. “What happens is you make peace with it, get not to mind the pain so much when it comes.”

She nodded. “Like you, with my father… and my aunt.”

“Aye,” he nodded. Looking to either side of him, and then warily at Gendry, he added, “My lady? I… need to tell you a story, one involving yourself. I hope I do not offend you or your betrothed by it.”

Puzzled, she shook her head. “No, of course. Go ahead.”

“Very well. Of course, you know the efforts of King Robert and your father to join their two houses together, marrying your sister to Joffrey. Ned was a man who preferred to think ahead, not rush into any decision, especially those involving his children. Even though only Robb and Sansa were of marrying age, he’d begun to have conversations with other nobles, about other betrothal matches for all of them. Some were casual, but others were quite serious. One of those serious proposals your father and I discussed, to join _our_ houses. We did not get a chance to make an agreement before Ned left for King’s Landing, but I’m sure we would have if he’d returned.”

“An agreement?” Arya said. “What was it? Were you planning on marrying Bran to Meera…”

“No, not that,” he chuckled, then met her gaze with his own. “We talked of marrying you to my Jojen.”

Her breath caught in her throat as she heard the name. “Your son?” she almost whispered over the crackling fire, feeling Gendry rubbing her shoulders, trying to give some comfort. “The one who died Beyond the Wall traveling with Bran?”

“The same.” He stared out into the distance. “He was Bran’s age, not the strongest of boys, but quick minded and brave. I can tell you truly love your betrothed, my lady, from every minute I see you two together, but… I’d like to think, if things had gone as we planned, that he would have been a good match for you. He was not much younger than you, and he was well used to older women who knew their way around weapons.” His quiet laughter held as much sorrow as mirth.

She found herself rising from her seat, patting Gendry on the shoulder as her heart broke for the small, greying crannogman and his memories. _Gods, he must see the ghosts of all those he lost whenever he sees me._

“My lord?” she said as she stepped around the fire. “I… thank you for telling me of this.” She approached Howland. “I truly wish… no matter what, I truly wish I had the chance to meet your son.” She kneeled by his side. “Even more, I wish he was by your side now.”

Howland gathered her into his arms, their heads resting on each other’s shoulders. She could feel the sobs shaking the older man’s shoulders. “Thank you, Arya,” he whispered to her. “Truly, thank you.”

#

They’d been in the longboats for nearly a day, headed west.

Arya was in the lead longboat. Gendry was one of four men rowing, facing backwards as they pulled. She sat between him and Bran, who was in the middle of the craft, seated in his wheelchair, the wheels locked into place with braces. Lord Howland was in the bow of the craft, looking through the fog and thickets to where they were headed.

Arya realized that while she had traveled through the Neck twice in her life before, she had only seen a small portion of the land, and at its least wild section along the Kingsroad. Now, huddled in the boat that seemed so small in the vastness of the swamp, she was in the true heart of the Neck.

Fog covered the thick, half-drowned forest the boats weaved their way through, obscuring the tops of the trees and the fading afternoon sun, while faint flurries fell and merged with the black bog below. The trees were haggard old men, standing sentinel over their watery domain, curtains of dark green moss hanging from their branches and leaves while pale fungus marked their trunks, making them easier to pick out in the fog.

While there was plenty of signs of plant life, even flowers of nearly tropical coloring, animal sightings were fewer and far between. Many ducks, herons, and pelicans congregated in the open water, having well adapted to life in the Neck, while their less water-bound avian cousins made their homes in the trees. The black water and occasional moors were teeming with frogs of all varieties, salamanders, catfish, and serpents of different sizes and shapes. The famed lizard lions were nowhere to be seen; Lord Howland had explained that large groups of men made the creatures quite shy.

Brandon appeared spellbound with all the sights that could be discerned through the slate-grey fog, his head on a constant, slow swivel. She saw Brandon lean toward a long V-shaped wave on the starboard side of the boat, and to her horror, she realized it was a boa constrictor, at least a dozen feet long, taking a leisurely swim. “Bran, watch yourself,” she whispered to him.

Bran looked over his shoulder, his expression serene and grey eyes dreaming. “He wouldn’t hurt me, Arya, don’t worry.”

There was a part of her that somehow realized he was absolutely correct, some intuition. _However… _“Well, I don’t want you falling over the side and drowning after surviving the Others. It wouldn’t be right.”

Bran let out the softest of chuckles. “That shouldn’t be a concern either, Arya. In the days since I got back to Winterfell, I’ve been practicing swimming in the underground baths. Trust me, it is easier for me to move around in the water with just two arms than it is on land.”

He turned back to look ahead as they threaded through the drowned forest. “This place feels more _alive _than any place I have traveled to before,” he whispered. “The plants, animals, they are all ababble here, the place teems with them. I can feel the Children’s magic here, very strong. We may not see them, but I’m sure a few of them are around. I feel _peaceful _here.”

“What are the plants and animals telling you then, Bran?” she asked her baby brother.

“Not sure yet,” he said, still smiling, as he looked back to her once more. “I’m trying to learn their languages.”

As he turned back around, Arya pondered who her brother was at that moment. She’d known him as the adventurous and curious little boy, full of love and hope. Then, when she’d met him after she’d returned to Winterfell, he veered between an emotionally wrecked youth and a near-emotionless sentinel overwhelmed with tremendous power. Now, he seemed some mix of the wonder of his childhood, the mystic Raven, and an ordinary young man weary before his time. _We’ve all changed, _as she thought of Sansa, Jon, Gendry, and herself – sometimes for the better, a couple of times worse than before, but always to protect themselves against what the world threw at them.

She saw Howland slowly stand up in the boat, his spyglass pointed forward and just a few degrees to the right. “Crannog!” he called out behind him, waving forward. “Follow me.”

“What?” Gendry said, turning around in his seat. “Are we finally there yet? I… Seven Hells.” Arya turned back to face forward.

The shape revealed itself as the fog faded away. It would be generous to say what they saw was a fourth the size of Winterfell. The walls were laid out in a square design, and modest – she thought their height was only about two and a half times that of a normal man. The four circular corner towers, each with torches at the top, were barely higher than the main walls, and sat on what appeared to be four far larger plots of land that appeared to have a buoyancy purpose to them. A single gatehouse led into the castle, and they could see a small square-shaped three story keep, maybe a third the size of the First Keep at Winterfell.

Several other floating man-made islands surrounded Greywater Watch, dotted with the huts of fishermen, hunters, and other crannogmen, some connected to the castle’s island or each other by wooden walkways.

“How does it stay up?” Arya said.

“Reeds for the smaller islands, a combination of those, sponge oak wood and supporting pylons for the castle,” Howland said. “It’s a bit of work to maintain and change out new reeds and all that, but we’re used to it. That way, we don’t get idle.”

Arya looked at the castle and the settlement around it in true amazement. If she had seen such a place anywhere else in the North, she might have discounted it as just another holdfast, little better than a wooden keep. But here, floating on the waters, hidden from the eyes of men… it was a secret wonder of the world. “I’d think it was magic if you hadn’t told me differently,” she said, shaking her head.

#

After disembarking from the boat and wrestling Bran’s chair onto land, they made their way through the gate and across the dirt ground of the courtyard. She could see a couple of cottages inside the walls that held a smithy, kitchen, and some other places. Arya also saw a wooden wall and gate closing off what appeared to be a fourth of the courtyard from the rest of it. “Our godswood,” Lord Howland said as he saw what she looked at. “Not as fancy as the one you grew up with at Winterfell, but there’s a proper heart tree at least.” It was then that Howland’s eyes lit up at the sight of two women who were waiting outside the doorway to the main keep.

Both women were close to Arya’s height. One appeared to be Howland’s age, yet still slender, with warm hazel eyes, a wide, full mouth, and an impressive collection of dark brown curly hair that approached her waist and was showing its first streak of grey near her forehead. She wore a simple olive-green dress without ornamentation, but certainly well-crafted.

The other was Arya’s age, a couple inches taller but with a lighter build, seemingly agile but without Arya’s hidden muscles. She shared the older woman’s dark brown curly hair, although it only touched her shoulders, but the eyes fixed on Bran were the same emerald as that of Lord Howland. She wore sheepskin trousers and boots, a jerkin with bronze scale armor, and carried a three-pronged crannogman spear and bow on her back, and a simple dagger by her waist. Arya realized immediately that this was the mysterious Lady Meera Reed of Greywater Watch.

With a wide grin, Howland crossed the courtyard to be with them. He embraced the older woman, and they exchanged a kiss that seemed to have plenty of contained passion. He then drew the younger woman in for a hug and a kiss on her forehead, then led them to greet their visitors. “Everyone, I would like you to meet Lady Jyana Reed, my wife and Lady of Greywater,” he said, pointing to the older woman. “And this is my daughter, Lady Meera Reed.”

Meera walked over to Bran, whom Arya had been pushing in his chair to get into the courtyard. Her expression was as unreadable as almost anyone’s Arya had ever met – it reminded her of Jaquen H’ghar playing the game of faces with her years back in Braavos. “Lord Brandon,” she said, bending down to speak with him, “I’m glad you survived your battle. Father’s message by courier said you had been wounded?”

Bran seemed quite unsure of himself as he finally nodded. “Yes, not as bad as others.”

“You managed the journey well, then?”

“Well enough, thank you for asking,” Bran replied.

She simply nodded, and then turned to Arya, but there was a genuine smile for her. “You must be Arya,” Meera said, extending her hand. “Brandon talked all about you during our travels.”

“And he of you when we reunited,” Arya said, accepting her handshake. “I think we just missed each other when I returned to Winterfell.”

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you now,” Meera said. “And this is…?” she added, pointing to Gendry, who seemed self-conscious at being almost a foot taller than nearly everyone in the castle.

“Oh, yes,” Arya said, taking Gendry by the hand. “This is Lord Gendry Baratheon. He… he’s my betrothed.” She felt herself getting red in the face – she realized it had been the first time she had ever introduced him to someone as such.

It was Lady Jyana who came over and first shook Gendry’s hand, then pulled him into a surprisingly strong hug. “Ah, welcome,” she said in a pronounced Northern brogue. “You… you would be the old King Robert’s son?”

“One of his bastards,” Gendry said. “I was Gendry Waters… more or less, but Queen Daenerys legitimized me.”

She turned back to Arya. “Ah. How did you two meet…?”

“I met him in King’s Landing, when I traveled with my father there.”

Jyana took a deliberate pause before saying, “Oh, that’s a story, I’m sure.”

“Wife, if you would excuse me, I think I will need to get the men settled and ready,” Howland said.

“Oh, of course, of course, go on with you, My Lord,” she said, reaching up and kissing him on the cheek. “I’ll get our guests here settled in. Any children of Eddard Stark… or his future goodchildren, for that matter, are always welcome at Greywater.”

#

“…anyway, these are some of the rooms we have,” Jyana said, walking Bran, Gendry, and Arya through the ground floor of the Greywater keep. “Brandon, I think we can set this room aside for you,” she said, pointing to one of the doors.

“Thank you, my lady, I am sure it will be just fine,” Bran said. “May I visit your godswood for a time? I’d like a chance to sit and rest for a moment.”

“Oh, well, of course, Lord Brandon, of course,” she replied. “Benjen!” she called out to one of the Greywater servants. “Benjen, can you help… push Lord Brandon to the godswood? I’d appreciate it, thank you so much.” A crannog boy no older than Bran and a touch shorter appeared and dutifully escorted Bran to his desired destination.

It was just Arya and Gendry who followed Jyana when she stopped at the next door. “Here, then,” she said, patting the door, “we’ll have the two of you stay in this room.”

Gendry glanced at Arya in clear shock, which she mirrored as well. “Ah, My Lady,” she said, “are you sure…?”

“You two are betrothed,” Lady Jyana said simply. “I am no longer as young as I was, but I remember what it was like. Sometimes Lord Howland forgets such things, but he is happy to have me remind him,” as she smirked at the last statement. “Regardless, this would let you two stay with each other and be close to Brandon if he might need something.”

Arya took a deep breath, nodding in relief. “Thank you, My Lady.”

“Well, I’ll leave you to get your things stored,” Jyana said. “Don’t forget to be on time for dinner tonight, please! We’ll show you how catfish and carp in these waters taste properly prepared.”

“Looking forward to it, My Lady,” Gendry said. He and Arya could only share a look of wonder as the Lady of Greywater left them to settle in.

#

**Meera**

She entered the wooden gate to the godswood. By most standards, the Greywater Watch godswood would not match up against most godswoods south of the Neck, never mind those in the North. There were maybe a dozen trees, including the heart tree, on land a fraction of the size of the Winterfell godswood. Still, it was home to her.

Meera found Bran underneath the weirwood with its somber carved face, his own eyes closed and breathing deeply, face up toward the sky. She was surprised at how much he had changed physically in just the time since she’d seen him last. His chestnut hair was trimmed closer to his skull, but there was now a distinct, short, narrow beard curling around his chin and merging with an equally narrow and short mustache. His shoulders had seemingly spread during that time, and his expression was more peaceful than distant. “You awake, Three-Eyed-Raven?” she called out.

He opened his eyes and turned to her. “Yes,” he said. “And… I’m likely just the Raven now. Not powerful enough to be three-eyed anymore, I guess.”

“Why did you come?” She could tell that the old resentments were coming out again, and she had no interest in holding them back now.

“I know that I needed to talk to you, to explain why I did what I did… to ask for your forgiveness.”

“You already decided to invade my dreams and try to explain yourself,” she scoffed as she sat down on one of the weirwood tree’s roots. “I think I got a good idea of your excuses.”

“That’s not enough, though,” Bran said. “This conversation… I needed to have this conversation face to face.”

“I’m not sure I needed to hear…” she hissed.

“I swore to your father that I would answer to you in person if I survived the Long Night,” Bran shot back. “I gave him my word, and I am here to honor that word, and explain myself fully to you.”

She looked down at her feet, using her frog spear to idly dig up some ground rather than explode at Bran. “Very well,” she whispered. “Explain yourself. Why did you let me go the way that you did?”

He reached down and, to her surprise, turned his wheels in the soft earth until he faced her. “If you had stayed, you would have defended me to the death, against the dead who wished to enslave me and join them,” he said. “Lord Howland lost one of his children protecting me. I did _not _want him to lose both children. That… would have torn out my heart.”

“You let your brother and sister defend you, you let others defend you, what was the difference with me?”

“Jojen was my friend,” Bran said. “When he died, a piece of me died, and I know it was the same and more for Lord Howland. I did not want that to happen to him to lose both his children.”

“Many people served you and your family, and yet they fought along beside you, your ‘friends…’”

“You were more than a friend to me,” Bran blurted. “I wanted you to be safe, and it didn’t matter if you hated me as long as you were safe.”

Her emerald eyes narrowed as she hopped up from her seat and hovered over him. Suddenly, she reared back and slapped Bran on the back of his head with a mighty _smack_. “You fucking stupid _boy,_ why didn’t you tell me that? Why didn’t you say that to me…”

“Would I be a proper husband to you, in this chair?” Bran said, tears now evident in the corners of his eyes. “Would I, the way I am?”

“That was _not _for you to _judge!” _Meera shouted, grabbing him by the shoulders. “If you had feelings towards me, you needed to let me know! That was _my _judgement to make, not yours alone!”

“I… I’m _sorry! _I’m sorry! I was so scared of everything… of the Others, of how you felt, of the power that overwhelmed me… I was lost. Forgive me,” he said, slumping forward in his chair.

She waited for a moment for him to calm down. “Bran,” she said, “what did you mean by, you’re the Raven now, and not the Three-Eyed-Raven?”

“The power of the Three-Eyed-Raven was a reaction of the Children to try and fight the Night King and the Others, a way to vanquish them,” he finally breathed more than said. “When they were defeated, the magical energy of the Others was released back to the Children, as was the power of the Three-Eyed-Raven as well.”

She closed her eyes for a moment. _Are you in there, Bran… or some version of you, at least? _“What does that mean for you? Are you powerless?”

He shook his head. “What abilities I have are my innate ones, the ones I had on the road to the Three-Eyed-Raven, like Jojen’s abilities. They might have grown some, as well. What that means, I do not know.”

She grabbed the front of his tunic with both hands in frustration. “I want to believe what you say… because of how I feel, too…”

“If I could take that dagger in your belt, open up my skull and my chest, show you what is in my head and my heart, I would do it in an instant,” Brandon insisted. “Please believe me, that I want to make amends to you, to make things right between us.”

She huffed at that statement. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if you could? Well, I or someone else will need to get you back to the keep for supper tonight…”

“Could you do that, please, but keep me company here first?” Bran said. “I wanted to say in here for a while.”

_Gods, trying to understand him… I want to, but can I? _“All right. The swamps can be quite a racket, though.”

“For me, they’re quite peaceful,” Bran said, settling into his chair. “Do you know this is the farthest south I’ve ever traveled in my life? The Neck, it feels… so _alive_ to me, more than any place I’ve ever been.”

_Plenty of mosquitoes are alive enough here, _she thought, sitting back down next to him. “You don’t say?”

#

**Gendry**

_The most beautiful woman in Westeros loves me, _he thought as he held his beloved up in the air. _And, she’s never more beautiful when she shatters with pleasure._

Arya writhed against him, howling as the waves of pleasure crested across her body, her chestnut hair in a jumbled mess, grey eyes unfocused for once, and her face and upper chest flushed red.

A couple of hours after the dinner feast at Greywater Watch, Gendry and Arya were in their guest chamber. Gendry stood nude in the middle of the chamber. Arya was equally nude, hanging in the air, her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist, and his member helping hold her in place as he had her tight and rounded backside in his hands. How he managed to have his release, his seed spilling out of Arya and down one of his own thighs, without him collapsing on the floor, was a complete mystery to him.

“Oh, Gods and Seven fucking Hells,” Arya moaned into his chest as she lay, limp, in his arms. “How the fuck did you think of this?”

“Well, I end up carrying you around places at times,” he choked out. “Figured it would make sense to see what it was like making love that way. Did you like it?”

“No, I fucking despised it,” she cackled, startling Gendry by licking the right side of his face. “Silly cunt lad. So, what other devious fantasies do you want to reenact with me? I suppose it will be part of my future wifely duties to you.”

Now, it was Gendry to get flush as his tongue failed him. “I… I don’t know what you’d think…”

“Oh, come the fuck on,” Arya grunted, grabbing his face in both her hands, “you’re a Flea Bottom boy, you’re not that complex.” She kissed him. “Try me.”

He took a deep, shuddering breath, nerves well on edge. “Okay. Well… I’d… I’d like to see you water dance, just for me.”

She burst out in giggles. “Water dance? What’s sexy about water dancing, practicing swordsmanship…”

“Naked,” Gendry blurted out. “I’d like to see you water dance just for me, naked.” He closed his eyes, anticipating the inevitable blow to the head.

He was shocked to hear her giggling uncontrollably, flinging her arms around his neck. “Nude water dancing, oh Gods… most men would hate their ladies training, only you could think of it being a turn-on… silly fucking lad,” she said, kissing him.

He stared with what he knew had to be moony eyes toward her. “Would you…?”

“I think I could arrange that at some point,” she said. “Maybe if you’d agree to work at a forge one day naked, as well.”

“Maybe with an apron, though,” Gendry said. “Those sparks and hot splinters can be dangerous.”

She collapsed in his arms giggling at that.

#

**Bran**

He was attempting to settle in for a decent night’s sleep for once.

He wore a simple linen nightshirt – there were plenty of quilts to keep him warm besides the fireplace. The bed he was in was comfortable enough, even a bit big for him, but he didn’t mind that at all. His wheelchair was off to one side of the bed, locked into place to allow him to get into it in the morning with ease. On the other side, closer to him, was a lit candle to allow him to read his volume of the histories of the Northern kings clearly. _Bed pot, water… the hearth burning… seems all is well._

He’d been a bit disconcerted at the howls and shrieks emanating from the nearby room. For once, he was grateful that there were no animals in the other room, keeping him from accidentally warging and seeing something he had no interest in seeing. From the amount of accompanying laughter, however, he felt good that whatever was going on was putting them in good spirits.

There was a soft knock at the door. He managed to push himself into a seated position on the bed, leaning against the headboard. “Come in,” Bran said.

Meera came in, holding a candle to light her way in. “Hello,” she whispered. She seemed to just be wearing a sleeveless linen nightdress, padding barefoot across the wooden floors used in Greywater to save on weight. “Can I talk with you for a while?”

“Sure,” he nodded.

Meera brushed her unbound hair out of her eyes, then went over to place her candle on top of the fireplace mantle and blow it out. Then, she walked over to the unoccupied side of the bed. After first glancing at Bran’s wheelchair, she moved the covers of the bed just enough so she could sit down and face him. “I came to care for you, during our time Beyond the Wall,” she said. “That last part, when it was just the two of us… after Jojen, after Hodor, I just felt alone. But… I never knew how you felt. You… never let me know that. And that was because you weren’t sure you could love me, correct?”

“Yes,” he whispered, setting his book down and meeting her gaze.

“How about now?” she said. “How do you feel now about it? The Three-Eyed-Raven is no longer an issue, right?”

He nodded. “Yes, all the different voices, the different visions and consciousnesses, they are gone from my mind. It seems I remain.”

“Okay, then, that’s one problem overcome. What about your others?”

“What would I possibly teach any boy of mine? How to hunt or fish? How to ride a horse?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, _I _could teach him those things, or my father,” Meera groaned in frustration. “You could keep plenty busy teaching him or her letters and numbers, the history of our people, and maybe you might have finally learned the tiniest bit of wisdom about life that you could pass along. So, what else were you worried about?”

Bran grabbed a hold of the sheets to brace himself as he struggled to admit what he needed to say to Meera. “I… I didn’t know if I could have a family. In my condition.”

He was surprised to feel her pat him on the shoulder as she nodded. “I see. You… never really talked about your injury. I mean, you talked about not being able to walk, getting injured, but few details.”

“You’re right. The fall from the tower shattered my legs and dislocated their joints, making them unusable. However, I also hurt something in my lower spine. For years afterwards, I would alternate between having burning pains in my legs and lower body to not being able to feel anything there.”

“Brandon… I’m sorry,” she said, reaching to take his hand.

“There was nothing you could have done about it, no need to concern you,” he said. “But during the Battle of the Long Night, the Night King... he threw me against the heart tree in our godswood. I hit my head against it, but I landed on my back and could feel a _pop_ right there.

“It was a long time before I woke up,” Bran continued. “Maester Wolkan and Lord Samwell said that I hadn’t broken anything, but I asked them to take another look at my back. Sam poked around back there with some maester’s knives and extracted a loose splinter of bone right where I had heard the pop. Maester Wolkan suggested that the splinter might have been wedged in my spine, and that the blow had knocked it loose somehow. My legs still don’t work, of course, but the pain and numbness haven’t come back since.”

She edged a bit closer to him. “Bran? Have you… spent before, come? Even… with yourself?” Bran tried to look anywhere except her face. “It’s all right, Bran, I just want to know.”

“I… I think there were times when it happened in my sleep, from dreams, maybe? I wasn’t sure. I’ve ne… never played with myself, though. I was scared it wouldn’t work, even now. What happens if it doesn’t work?”

“Better to know one way or another,” she said. Meera leaned over and started to move the covers from Bran’s legs. “I can help.”

He suddenly grabbed hold of them to keep them in place. “No, you don’t have to,” he said. “I wouldn’t want you to be dishonored in any way.”

“I don’t care about that Faith of the Seven shit,” Meera said.

“You’ve been with a man before?”

She shook her head. “I’ve talked with some older girls I know. And my mother.” That earned her a shocked stare from Bran. “What, should I have gone to my father for those questions?”

“No, no, I understand,” Bran said, nervous enough as he was.

“So, what’s the harm, then?”

“I’m nervous about showing myself to you, if I’m honest,” he said. “I’m basically shriveled up below the waist, obviously.”

“Ugh, Bran, don’t worry about that. Everybody has something about them they’re self-conscious about.”

“Not you, though.”

“Yes, me, though, what do you mean…?”

“Well, you’re pretty,” Bran said, feeling the blood coming to his face.

She took his hand again as she smiled nervously at him. “You might make me believe that. _Might.”_

“Well, what is it…?”

“Bran, I don’t have any bosoms to speak of. And that’s the truth.”

That froze Bran and his tongue in place. “What…?”

“Oh, I don’t mean they’re petite but cute ones, like your sister has, but I don’t have _any. _I mean, I’m like Arya that I don’t worry about those girl-type things, but wearing one of those southren dresses like the highborn girls do in King’s Landing or Oldtown, the ones that show _off_ their bosoms, it would be a disaster for me.”

“You and her were thick as thieves tonight at dinner, what were you talking about?” Bran was desperate to change the subject.

“Archery,” she replied. “Once we get back on the road, she’s going to show me how she learned to shoot a bow and arrow from horseback like the Dothraki. Now, though, _we_ have some things to learn.” She reached over for the covers. “Will you let me?”

“All right,” he stuttered, his shoulders and back shaking from the chill or his nerves or both. “When you do, can you take off your shift? It… might help me.” He whispered the last part.

Meera smiled as she raised herself up on her knees. “Ready?”

“No,” he chuckled, nerves still raw. “But do it anyway.”

She eased the covers back so his feet and lower legs were uncovered. His feet looked ungainly and oversized for his spindly legs, lacking any real muscle tone.

With one shaking hand, the other helping brace himself upright, he reached for the bottom of his nightshirt. “Um, Meera? I might need help getting this off.”

“Okay.” She reached down and helped him slide his nightshirt from underneath him, then lifted it over his head. Once he was done, name day naked, he was puzzled as she drew a line with her finger down the narrow strip of hair down the center of his chest.

Meera took a quick look down at his lap, then turned to him. “Well, not everything down there is shriveled,” she grinned.

_My whole face and chest has to be beet red at this point, _he thought. “Enough, please,” he pleaded.

“All right, all right,” she said. “Anyway, I did promise.” She reached down to the hem of her shift and lifted it off her shoulders.

He stopped breathing as he saw her, and forgot about how he looked or how nervous he was as he focused on her. Ivory skin, so slim and beautiful, with her dark green eyes and wide smile. “You see, I wasn’t wrong about my breasts,” she chuckled.

“You’re as beautiful as the Maiden,” he whispered, the smallest sliver of his mother’s teachings of the Seven coming to his mind.

“Silly bastard,” she said. “You know… you can touch me if you want. If that would help.”

“Okay.” With the softest of touches, he ran his left hand down her right side in a long line from her shoulder to her hip, not daring yet to touch any unknown territory to him. Still, she felt so soft, so luscious, that he started to stir even untouched himself.

“Let’s get you started,” she whispered. With that, she leaned over him and took his member in both hands and began to caress it.

He flopped back onto the bed, moaning, not able to control the wave of sensations emanating from his groin and now spreading throughout his body. Part of him was embarrassed that it was Meera doing this for him, but the other part of him was grateful because he doubted he would be able to trust any other woman except for her.

“You look uncomfortable, you want me to stop?” she half-japed to him.

“Gods no,” he groaned, unable to focus, “please, keep going. This is glorious.”

She wrapped him up in both hands as he lost himself in the sensations. “Gods, it’s perfect,” he whispered to himself.

“This might be working,” Meera murmured, gathering him in. “I want to… _Gods.”_

He had leaned up and taken her left nipple into his mouth, almost compelled to. He heard. “Bran, easy… a bit softer, like that… yes. Much better.” He softly sucked on her, using his tongue to play with it every now and then, as she continued to touch him.

After a few moments, he realized that there was a certain firmness to his member as he felt it underneath Meera’s hands. Stunned, he looked down to seeing her holding it by the base and standing, curved upward but firm, in the air.

“All right, I’m going to get you ready,” she said, easing his head away from her chest as she leaned over his lap. He barely could talk, and while he tried to reach out with his mind to see what she wanted to do, he couldn’t focus at all. Then he felt her mouth slide over and around his cock.

He fell back onto the bed with a loud groan, feeling the bumpy wetness of the inside of her mouth as it glided over him. He couldn’t even think as he tried to process the warm, tingling sensations now spreading throughout his body.

Bran almost moaned with disappointment after she took her mouth off him, and glanced at his now-wet member. “Okay, I think you’re ready,” she whispered, emerald eyes fixed on his lap.

“Ready fo…”

In one movement, she threw her right leg over his lap and lowered herself on to him. He saw himself disappear into the mass of tight black curls between her legs, and then he moaned as she shoved her hips down.

“Ohhhh… ahhh,” he heard above him. Bran looked up to see her grimace as she balanced herself by holding onto his shoulders. “Are you all right?” Bran asked.

“It’s okay… ahhh,” Meera whispered to him. “I think I tried to do that too fast. It’s fine now, though. Trust me.”

He closed his eyes for a moment while she began to rock back and forth against his hips, holding him in place while she arched back behind her. Bran grabbed the bedding around him because he didn’t know what else to do. The waves of pleasure were taking over and he felt riveted in place, only able to tremble and moan at what was happening to him, all control being washed away.

When Bran opened his lids again, he was seeing through both his and Meera’s eyes.

He was in her mind and she was in his. As he was staring through her eyes, so was she sharing his own view. He was experiencing the dull but fading ache between her legs while his waves of pleasure and orgasm began to wash over her.

All secrets, all things said and unsaid between them, were now clear. She could sense the pain, regret, and fear over what had happened before between them, not just hear it, but feel it in her soul. He felt her anger and confusion, her own pain over what she lost.

Both of them admitted their love for each other without a word being said.

I think I’m going to spend, Bran thought out loud to her.

_That’s what we want, right? _Meera replied.

What… what about you?

_I want to make this happen for you… for me._

Why

_I want to have a child. _

Seven hells.

_I want one with you. _She now increased her pace, knowing how close he was as he now grabbed her backside and started to meet her thrusts.

You want this

_My family’s about to die out_

You want to grow your pack

_I want there to be a future for us_

You know me

_As I know myself_

I’m sorry

_I know_

_Will you please_

Please

_Will you? Let yourself go_

You want this

_Let yourself go_

You want this

_Will you_

Yes

_Will you_

Yes

_Let yourself go_

“Yes,” he moaned out loud, more at the building delicious tension at the center of him.

“Bran… ohhhh… go on, go on…”

With a moaning yelp, Bran writhed, his back arched, as the first of the spasms hit him. He felt an unfamiliar twitching at the base of his cock, somewhere between his balls and his backside, as spurt after spurt of his seed shot up inside Meera, who leaned forward, taking his face in her strong hands, well-callused from work. “It’s all right,” she whispered in his ear over and over again, between kisses, as he continued to come. “It’s all right.”

They laid there for a few moments, not moving. Then: “I love you,” Bran said.

Meera looked at him in surprise. “You already said…”

“Some things need to be said in person,” Bran smiled.

She snorted and gave him a kiss on his nose before she slid off him and rested on her side to his left. “I love you, too.”

“Meera, I want you to know, I didn’t mean to invade your mind that way…”

“I know you didn’t,” she said, stroking his face. “I get the feeling that I was responsible for that in my own way.”

“Trust me, nothing like that ever happened to me before… at least, not exactly like that.”

That prompted another fit of laughter from her. “Don’t worry, I think we both have room to learn.” She paused for a moment. “I was surprised when you said yes.”

“I was happy to,” Bran replied. “I was never sure I could have a family… this would be amazing. Wait, but if we married, any children would have to have my name, wouldn’t they? You said you wanted to preserve your house…”

“When I talked with Arya, she mentioned what happened with Sansa,” she replied. “Jon and Daenerys are planning to pass a new rule saying a man and woman can give their children the family name of the mother if they both agree to it, like what happened with Sansa.”

“While Sansa carries on the _Stark _name,” Bran said. “It doesn’t take greensight to see that she wants to have a large pack before she’s done.” He pulled Meera to him in his embrace. “Your family has done so much for me,” he said. “I would be honored to do this for you and your family.”

“Thank you,” Meera said. After they kissed, she said, “Bran, I…”

“You’re coming with us to Harrenhal, I know,” he replied. “As long as neither of us go charging into battle, it should be all right.”

“This warging, mind-merging, whatever, it’s going to take some getting used to.”

“Look at it this way. You can rest assured I will keep no secrets from you from now on,” he said.

“For good and bad.”

#

**Gendry**

They were drifting off to sleep when Arya sat straight up in bed. “What was that?”

He couldn’t hear anything, not really. “What are you on about? Lie back down, Arry.”

“There was something…” but froze in place at another sound. To Gendry, it sounded like somebody, a young boy, maybe, groaning in pain. “What was…,” she began, but was interrupted by a louder groan from further down the hall. “Shit!” she whispered, expression horrific, excited, and curious all at once.

“…bloody Seven Hells is going on…?”

She leaped out of bed and grabbed the sleeping shift by her bed. “Gods, I think my brother is having sex,” she whispered breathlessly. “Come on, Bull, we’re going to find out.”

“What?” Gendry growled, half-tumbling out of bed to try and find where he put his trousers, at least.

“I need to see what’s going on.” With the shift over her head, she took one of the candles on the mantle and began to go out the door.

“You can’t mean to barge in on him?” Gendry whispered fiercely at his betrothed as he finished buttoning up his pants. “If it is what you think it is, you want to interrupt that? S’not right.”

“I’m not walking in there,” Arya sighed as she opened her door. “I’m just listening in. C’mon, Bull.”

“You’re a fucking madwoman, Arry,” he grunted, but followed her out the door.

They tiptoed down the hallway, Arya looking from one end of it to the other to make sure no one was approaching. The volume of cries both male and female were growing, and Gendry thought he could hear the creaking of a wooden bed frame as well.

She got to within two feet of the door to listen in. “I don’t believe it, I don’t believe it, I don’t believe it,” she whispered excitedly.

Then there was an uncontrolled yelping moan that Gendry knew had to come from Brandon. She turned to Gendry. “Oh, can you believe this shit?” Arya said, doing everything she could to suppress a giggle.

“Are we through, yet?” he asked in disbelief.

“I want to hear what they are talking about,” she said, as the voices inside the room quieted down to soft conversation. After a few more moments, and after some more looks down both sides of the hall, she took another step closer to the door. She took a second step…

…and heard a _creak_ from the floor as she planted her foot.

She froze in place, not making a sound, but Gendry knew things were in shambles. He started tiptoeing backward, toward the room, as Arya attempted to keep quiet, but then: “Arya? Is that you?” he heard Bran’s voice say.

She said nothing, but blew out the candle, tiptoe a few steps backward, then turned and waved Gendry toward the door: “Gogogogo.” They zipped through the door but eased it closed with the least amount of noise possible.

By the time Gendry turned around to face the bed, he saw she’d already leapt into the bed and thrown the covers over her head. He crept over to the bed and got in to look underneath the covers to find Arya covering her mouth and giggling uncontrollably.

“You are a total fucking madwoman, Arry,” he whispered to her, prompting a fresh giggling fit from her.

#

**Bran**

He felt her pat him on the shoulder before helping him through the doorway. “Slept well?” she asked.

“Actually, quite well, thank you,” he said.

“Looking forward to some breakfast. There’s usually some good eggs and cheese around…” she halted as they entered the modest dining hall of Greywater Watch.

A grinning Arya waved to them as she sat next to a self-conscious Gendry in the otherwise empty hall along the main table. “Oh, hi, Bran, Meera,” she said. “Your parents said they were held up with some business, so they told us to go ahead and start eating without them.” There was already plates of scrambled eggs, cheese, fruits, and other items waiting for them.

“All right,” Meera said. She scooted him up to the table and took a seat next to him, as they sat across from Arya and Gendry.

“Tea?” Arya said, holding a tea kettle in the air.

“Yes, please,” both Bran and Meera replied.

She filled both their cups, smiling all the time. After she sat down the kettle on the table, she sat down, a sardonic grin on her face, and stared at Meera with her arms crossed over her chest. “Well, well, well,” she said to Meera. “I do hope you were satisfied with your nocturnal activities last night.”

“Why is that, Lady Arya?”

“Your… _dalliance _with my baby brother,” she intoned in mock indignation. _Gods, this will be a mountain of japes, then, _Bran thought to himself.

“Why, I have no idea what you mean,” Meera said, her voice neutral but trying not to grin.

_“You, _an older woman of some years, snuck into my dear baby brother’s bedchamber in the middle of the night and made off with his maidenhood like a common thief.”

“Excuse me? _Made off_ with his maidenhood?”

“I can only give thanks that my poor lady mother didn’t live to see this day,” Arya huffed. “If _she _had happened upon your wantonness, she would have been so traumatized that she would have had to take to her bed for an entire week.” Bran noticed that Gendry was getting increasingly self-conscious about the situation.

“I did _not _steal anything from your brother, thank you kindly,” Meera growled at her, but the anger hadn’t reached her eyes. “If anything, it was a _mutual_ exchange of maidenhoods. I will let you know your brother was in favor of the exchange, as well.”

“Meera,” Bran said, already blushing in embarrassment.

“You’re still an older woman seducing a young boy. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was some secret swamp witchery behind the whole thing,” Arya said, nose stuck in the air.

“Arry, come on, enough,” Gendry said.

To Gendry’s apparent surprise, Meera now turned to him. “Lord Gendry,” she said in what Bran could tell was mock concern, complete with a worried brow, “I wish to apologize for the walk that you had to make to the hall today.”

Now Gendry was totally flummoxed. “The walk? I don’t know what you mean…”

“Well, you certainly had to carry Lady Arya to the dining hall from your chambers. I wouldn’t want you to overexert yourself.”

“Why would I have to carry her…”

“Why, after your and _her_ lasciviousness last night, there’s no way that she’d be able to walk here unaided.”

“What?” Arya choked out.

“Gods’ sake, look at the man,” she said, pointing at a frozen-in-place Gendry. “The man has to be huge between his legs.” Arya mouth flew open in shock, grabbing the table. “How are you not bow-legged?”

“Meera!” Bran cried out in horror.

“Meera fucking Reed,” Arya growled in response. “I never…”

“You sleep in the same bed,” Meera asked Gendry. “How do you manage not to _smother _her in the middle of the night?” Gendry’s anxious reaction told Brandon that he was picturing such a misfortune for the first time.

“You seem to have a strange amount of interest in my betrothed’s _cock_,” Arya hissed in exasperation.

“Arry,” Gendry whispered, trying to calm down the situation.

“Oh, be assured I’m quite content with your brother’s cock,” Meera said. “It’s actually very nice and quite pleasing, in fact…”

“Can we _not _talk about my cock at the breakfast table? Seven fucking hells,” pleaded Bran.

Arya groaned as she stood up. “He _didn’t _have to carry me anywhere.” To Bran’s surprise, she did a perfect backwards cartwheel, then sat back down. “Well, _that_ was impressive,” Meera said, serious and mocking all at once.

“I’ll let you know that I have a _vast_ capacity for men in all regards,” Arya said.

“Arya!” both Gendry and Bran called out in horror as Meera now struggled not to laugh.

“What?” Arya replied.

“You need to knock it off,” Bran said, shaking his finger at Arya. “What were you doing sneaking around outside my bedroom? You should be embarrassed.”

“You know, that was strange,” Arya said, regarding her brother as she leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “You had to ask if it was me outside? I thought you were the Raven that could see such things.”

“That’s not… it’s…” he spluttered.

“Come on, little brother,” Arya teased. “How come you didn’t know it was me outside?”

Bran was bright red with embarrassment as he tried to keep hold of himself. “I was _distracted,” _he finally grumbled.

Arya and Meera shared a single incredulous look, and then dissolved into a mutual fit of howling giggles, Arya slapping the table as Meera laid her head on it. Neither of them could speak or barely take a breath for a few minutes to come, and that is how Lord Howland and Lady Jyana found them as they entered the hall. Both ladies were barely able to choke out their greetings to the puzzled couple between fresh fits of laughter.

Shaking his head, Bran raised his tea cup to an incredulous Gendry. “Well, welcome to the family, I suppose.”

“I suppose,” Gendry sighed as he chuckled at the girls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there was a bit to get through here. Just a few thoughts/questions/announcements:
> 
> 1\. Hopefully, I got the humor right here. The final scene of this chapter is not Arya and Meera having an argument so much as having a jape-fest, or breaking balls in the world of The Sopranos. The two ladies have much in common and I had been looking for them to interact for a while.  
2\. It seems like the relationship between Bran and Meera went from somewhat estranged to life partners pretty quickly, but it made sense considering his abilities. What we saw was somewhat more sophisticated than a warging because both people are aware of the situation and are inside each other's minds, more like a mind merging. It's likely not something Bran can do with just anyone, but with people he is close to and trusts. And the... considerable emotional situation he found himself in sent those powers out of control before he knew it. That tends to speed up the whole communication process.  
3\. I also hope that I brought the swamps of the Neck to life for you. Sometimes I tend to keep my description of setting basic, but for someplace like the Neck and Greywater Watch, you need to have a better picture in your mind for the story to make sense. Let me know how I did in the comments.  
4\. Next chapter will be a big one, with the Dragon Army/Army of the High Kingdom arriving in Harrenhal. We'll see one of the most unique settings in this world from some new POV characters. I hope this take works well.
> 
> As always, feel free to comment and I will be very happy to respond. All you writers keep writing, and everyone stay safe.


	39. Harrenhal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The army of the High Kingdom gathers in Harrenhal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back again with another chapter. Hope everyone is keeping safe from viruses, unrest, and everything in between.
> 
> Quick note, I recently updated character tags for the story. They should be up to date, but let me know if there's something I'm missing.

39.

**Marton**

_…Daddy? Are you awake?_

His eyes pried open at the sound, unsure whether the words were real or part of a dream until… “Daddy? Are you awake?”

He started to sit up, his thoughts and what swam before his eyes a jumble before he started to regain his senses. He was in a bed for two… _he and his wife? Penny, that was it – slept there… _and was swaddled with quilts… _because he was cold? He felt no chill now._

“You’re up, Daddy.” The owner of the little sweet voice stood at the side of his bed. _Perla. _His daughter, six name days now, sweet as her voice and always looking out for others. She’d inherited his bushy dark brown hair and almond eyes, but had her mother’s heart shaped face – _thank the Gods, she’ll be a beauty in ten years or so. She shouldn’t look like me if there is justice._

She has a bowl of steaming chicken soup; he could tell from the smell it was his wife’s recipe. “Feel like eating, Daddy?”

“Uhhh… yuh, thank you, sweetling, so much.” He accepted the bowl and spoon and took an exploratory sip. The broth tasted wonderful going down, and quite warm, but he no longer felt the pain in his throat that had been there… _how long had that been? Four days? Six days? How long have I been sleeping in bed? That long?_ “Sweet girl, where is Mummy, do you know?”

She nodded, smiling. “Down in the shop, Poppa. I’ll get her.”

“Oh, Perla, you don’t need to do that for me, I’m feeling better…”

“It’s all right, Poppa. She wanted to see you when you woke up anyway. I’ll be back.” With that, she skipped out of the room.

He was regaining more of his senses, dulled by what he was guessing was several days of sickness and fever. _You’re Marton Stoneman, although your parents only gave you the first name. You’ve been a Riverlands boy all your life, but you used to be in the north Riverlands before you came here… Harrenhal._

There was a single window from his room to the outside. From his bed he could only make out a small fraction of the vast interior of the castle. Even if he got out of bed and pressed his face to the glass, the walls were too high for him to see their tops from that angle. He’d have to go outside the building to see them.

He remembered more. He was six and twenty, as was his wife. There was a boy, too – Ren, eight name days, an inquisitive and adventurous youngster with his face but his wife’s sandy brown hair and hazel eyes. He also recalled how he made his living, as a stonemason. He and Penny slept in this room and the children slept in a nearby room on the second floor of the building inside Harrenhal’s walls, and his stonemason shop took up the ground floor. He was now, somehow, the chief stonemason for the castle.

The door eased open and Penny hurried to sit on the side of his bed. “Marty, you’re finally up.” She looked like she’d been quite busy, loose strands of sandy hair escaping from a ponytail and what appeared to be dust covering parts of her olive-green dress and hair. It also looked like she was wearing one of the black aprons he wore at work.

She leaned over and kissed him on the forehead, a brief embrace. “Are you feeling any better?” With the clusters of light brown freckles across her cheeks and her rounded features, she could still pass as the girl of six and ten he’d married soon after arriving at Harrenhal rather than the wife ten years older.

“Yes, I think I’m doing better,” he said, starting to sit up more in the bed. He seemed weaker than normal – Marton was one who had to work to build the muscles on his frame.

He reached down to take her hands in his and noticed how they were covered with fresh cuts and scuff marks. “What’s been going on?”

“It’s nothing, love,” she said. “I was just helping out downstairs in the shop while you were ill.”

He sighed as his face fell at the news. “Penny, you didn’t have to…”

“Don’t you start, Marton Stoneman,” she said. “I said for this day until the end of my days and I meant it. You’d do the same, so no more worries.”

“Well, make sure you soak those hands,” Marton said. His hands were long callused from chipping away and lifting stones into place, but even he needed to take good care of them. She wasn’t used to it at all, but a small part of him was proud of her for diving in and helping.

“Marton? Ser Bonifer was by last night to check up on how you were feeling. He didn’t come in – I didn’t know how sick you were – but he did visit.”

_That _perked his ears up. Ser Bonifer Hasty was the castlellan of Harrenhal, his de facto boss. In addition, he was the leader of a group of knights known as the Holy Hundred, known for their piety in the Faith of the Seven. Those knights tended to wear the seven-pointed star of that faith as much as their house sigils. “What did he have to say?”

“He said that when you were feeling better, he wanted you to see him. Apparently, there’s something going on,” Penny said.

“What’s going on?”

She looked down at her lap. “Apparently there’s some soldiers outside the walls.”

His eyes widened at that. In one movement, Marton threw the quilts covering him off to one side and swung his legs over the other side. “Marton, are you sure you’re all right…?”

“Much better than I was and as good as I have to be,” he replied. He headed to a dresser where there was a bowl of water. He splashed some on his face, did his best to rearrange his woolly head, and reached down to pull on some brown woolen trousers and a brown work tunic. “Where’s the boy?”

“Off exploring around the towers again. Don’t act cross with him, he’s been helping in the shop almost as much as me. He earned a break,” she replied, worried for a moment of his anger, although it rarely if ever came.

“Well, glad for that at least. Penny, I know he could be anywhere, but… ask around, see if you can find him? That’s a good girl. Tell Perla I appreciated her helping you out, too,” he said as he finished pulling on his boots.

“Are you sure you’re all right…?”

“If there’s soldiers outside, Ser Bonifer’s going to need to know the state of the castle for its defense,” he said. “Things will be fine, but… perhaps you should pack a few things, just in case.”

She took his face in her hands before he could leave. “I love you, Marty.”

“Love you, Pen,” he said, then kissed her.

#

_To live in Harrenhal Castle, you had to get used to being in the shadows_, Marton thought. Sometimes that was the result of finding yourself in a darkened and long-unsued portion of the castle. However, most of the time, the shadows came from its massive curtain walls and the quintet of towers reaching for the sky.

The black walls of Harrenhal were as steep as the sea-cliffs of the Westerlands and seemingly just as sturdy, but he saw several discolored and fissured sections that hinted at its slow but steady decay. It was a bit unnerving for him to walk through Flowstone Yard, used by the castle’s men at arms for exercise and drill. Normally it was filled with men either practicing swordsmanship, bow and arrow, or maintaining their weapons, but it was all but vacant that morning. He remembered that there were now only a third as many men at arms in the castle now as there had been when he first came to live there, back when House Whent still ruled there on the north bank of the God’s Eye. Now he wondered if that day there were even that many men around.

The Lady Whent and another lord had come and went since he’d lived in Harrenhal. As of now, the Lord of Harrenhal was a man named Lord Petyr Baelish, a minor lord from the Vale that at one time had served as Lord Robert’s Master of Coin. He’d never met the man in his life, doubted he would be able to recognize him if he stood in front of him, and wasn’t sure if the lord had ever visited, much less lived at, Harrenhal. For at least the last year, maybe longer, Ser Bonifer was the de facto lord of the place, installed as castellan by Ser Jaime Lannister on behalf of his nephew. _All the responsibilities of lordship and none of the benefits,_ Marton thought.

The five towers of the castle were the perfect symbol of the castle and its history. They would loom over any equivalent structures in Westeros, even the Red Keep, but the dragonfire of Aegon I and Balerion three hundred and five years past had melted the tops of each tower. They hung over the rest of the castle, the mangled fingers of a giant thief’s hand, not curled but not standing completely straight, either. It was likely King Harren the Black had picked out imposing and proud names for each of the towers, but those had been lost with his death in a cloud of dragon’s smoke. They were known by all by humbler or more foreboding names, now: The Tower of Dread, Widow’s Tower, Wailing Tower, the Tower of Ghosts, and Kingspyre Tower. The latter of those was the tallest of all them, the one in which King Harren and his sons were burned to death. It was in that lopsided tower that Ser Bonifer had his castellan’s chambers and solar, and where Marton now entered to find him.

It seemed an endless series of flights of stairs Marton had to climb up the Kingspyre Tower. He was still not fully rested from his sickness, but even in good health and as young a man as he was, he might have found himself stopping at each flight to catch his breath.

As he entered the drafty, spacious solar, more the size of a castle hall than an intimate meeting and work room, he saw the senior staff of the castle surrounding Ser Bonifer as they alternated between pouring over a map of Westeros on one table and stealing glances out of a north-facing window overlooking the wide open fields and modest hills in that direction.

Ser Bonifer was tall, a head taller than most in the room, and with a scarecrow’s build protected by his full suit of armor. He had a cloth surcoat over that with the simple white diagonal over a purple field that was the sigil of House Hasty. His grey hair was cut short to the skull. Somewhere over fifty namedays, his stern, sad face had a wide, prominent nose and a tight line of a mouth. It seemed like only his grey eyes would provide any indication of whether his mood was compassionate or judgemental against either moral failings or dereliction of duty.

“We’re not going to have another choice in the matter, Anders,” Ser Bonifer was saying, staring down at the map. “One way or the other, they will come in when they get here…” He finally looked up at Marton. “Marton Stoneman, thank the Mother you’re up and out of bed. You feel well, now?”

Marton was surprised at the knight’s sincere compassion. “I am better, surely, but a little weak, yet. It was a bit of a journey up those stairs.”

Ser Bonifer shook his head and sighed with the realization. “I need to pray more to the Crone for better guidance. Donton, make sure you remind me when they get here, that we will meet with them in Hunter’s Hall rather than up here? Good lad.” He turned back to Marton. “I had a conversation with your wife… Penny, yes? You truly are blessed by the Mother with your family. I know you do well by them, but make sure you keep up the good work.”

“Ah, of course, Ser Bonifer, I will,” Marton said. The castellan was always courteous to the families of his men, and often bestowed on them the values of being proper fathers to their families, even though he himself had never married from what Marton knew. “She said you wished to speak with me?”

“Yes, yes. Over here,” he said, waving the stonemason over.

Marton got to the table. Surrounding it along with Ser Bonifer was Tothmure, the maester of the castle, and Romun, the castle’s septon.

Also, there were Ser Bonifer’s three main lieutenants in the Holy Hundred, like their captain and most of the older members Stormlanders. Ser Anders Eddarton was a bald, buff, and jolly man with twinkling blue eyes, more a happy drunk than a cold scold despite his faith, but he was a childhood friend of the castellan. Ser Garrand Wolders was a younger cousin of Bonifer, forty name days, grey, small, and quiet. Ser Donton Hasty was his eldest nephew, closely resembling his uncle but with thirty fewer years, a less prominent nose, and sandy brown hair rather than grey. The mood among all of them was grave.

“What did you wish to meet with me for?” Marton said.

“What’s the current condition of the castle?” Ser Bonifer spit out.

That caught Marton off guard. “I’d have to do a quick inspection to see otherwise, but I would think it would be as we typically say it, str…”

“Yes, yes, I know, I’m sure you’re right, but do the inspection when you get a chance,” Ser Bonifer said, waving him off.

“Why the concern about the castle’s condition? Penny said something about soldiers…?”

“Ah, yes, come to the window,” Ser Bonifer said, gesturing to them opened to the north. “You should see this.”

As Marton joined him by the window, he gave him a spyglass and pointed out to the north. “Take a look out there, you’ll see them soon enough.”

He peered through the glass, trying to follow the knight’s finger… and then he saw them. Groups of horsemen in the fields, riding back and forth, with tents and campfires evenly spaced between each other in an arc toward the north, stretching from west to east.

The men resembled no knights or mounted soldiers that he ever remembered seeing or hearing of. They were bronze-skinned with long straight black hair and beards, with no armor but armed with some type of curved edged weapons and re-curved bows. Their horses were swift and sure footed as they patrolled a wide perimeter around the castle, and they all seemed expert horsemen. He could sense their energy, their alertness, even from this distance. “Who are they?” he said as he returned the spyglass.

“Young man, meet the famed Dothraki, the screaming mounted wild men of the Dothraki Sea,” Ser Bonifer said in a matter-of-fact tone.

“Again, do we really know that those are Dothraki out there?” Ser Garrand said.

“They match the descriptions of the survivors of the Battle of the Loot Train, as well as the historical records of Essos,” Tothmure said. “Those are the Dothraki, have no doubt.”

Ser Bonifer nodded. “And if they are Dothraki, then only one person in Westeros would have such soldiers at her call – Daenerys Targaryen, the last child of King Aerys… and Queen Rhaella.” The way that the old knight emphasized the queen’s name with deliberation and care surprised Marton.

“They first showed up here four days ago,” Ser Bonifer said, turning back to the map. “They swiftly surrounded Harrenhal in this giant arc, each end of their lines anchored on the west and the east shore of the God’s Eye.”

“What did the Lannister captains say about this?” Marton asked.

The statement earned him a huff of disbelief and a shake of the head from Ser Donton. “He doesn’t know, Nephew; the man’s been in a sick bed for the past week,” Ser Bonifer scolded, then turned back to him. “They made a run for it the first night they were here, three days ago, all of them,” he replied. “The Holy Hundred are the only men at arms here at the castle.”

That caused Marton jaw to drop and him cover his mouth with one hand. He was no soldier, but even he realized one hundred knights would be at a major disadvantage against however many thousands of Dothraki were outside, even if they were behind the walls of Harrenhal. “What happened to them?”

Ser Bonifer pointed to the map. “They left in two groups, leaving at the same time. The first headed out the east gate and then south and east toward King’s Landing. The Dothraki rode them down and slaughtered them to the last man. The second group left through the west gate and ran northwest as fast as they could. They let those men go.”

“Why…”

_“Those _men were shedding any armor or sigils they had as they ran, maybe their weapons if they were among the most frightened,” Ser Bonifer said. “In a fortnight those men will be back in their towns and farms in the Westerlands trying to forget they ever served the queen and House Lannister.”

Marton looked out the window again. “So, we’re on our own.”

“I figured that we were pretty much on our own when the queen pulled the first three hundred from the garrison back to King’s Landing,” chuckled Ser Anders, “but yes, this probably confirms it.”

“What now?” Marton said.

Ser Bonifer’s hand came to his unwhiskered chin as he joined the mason by the window. “There’s no sign of siege equipment or machines, no sign even of spears among the horsemen. These men are not here to fight, they are acting as the eyes of a larger host. They wish to keep this castle under watch for the Dragon Queen, make sure that Harrenhal is not a bear trap disguised as a tasty treat.” If he did not have the fighting strength and stamina he’d had as a younger man, he certainly had a feel for fighting strategy and tactics.

“The Dragon Queen wishes to bring her army here,” Ser Garran said, a statement and not a question.

“Correct.”

“Are you sure of your intentions, Brother?” Ser Anders said.

“I am,” Ser Bonifer said. “Whenever she comes to this castle… it is my intent to open the gates of Harrenhal and surrender it to her. There would be no chance of the Holy Hundred putting up a fight, even if the Warrior was to descend from the stars and fight alongside us. Besides, I aim to pledge myself, and the Holy Hundred, to her service.”

The silence was thick in the room. Marton saw Ser Bonifer noticing Ser Anders grinning sardonically at his captain. “What is it, Anders?” Bonifer said. “Do you disagree with my plans?”

Anders shook his head and walked up to face him. “I ride where you ride, always,” he said. “The boys will do the same. It’s just… I did not ever see you as a nonconformist.”

“She is the only surviving child of King Aerys,” he responded. “She has a valid claim to the throne by birth. If any of King Robert and Queen Cersei’s children survived and the wife sat as regent, that would be one thing… but that is not the case anymore. And her actions that day, the day King Tommen died… she is no longer fit to rule even if she had the true right.”

All eyes were on Ser Bonifer as he continued his soliloquy, hands on the table as he leaned over the map. “All of you know my views on the Faith Militant and the High Sparrow,” he said. “They were pious men who wanted great things for our people, but some of their methods and actions were… not well-considered. I do not hold, necessarily, that they crossed the line into treason, although I will concede that they walked along that line, at least. If there was a question of their loyalty to the crown, then they deserved to face the King’s Justice. They did _not _deserve sudden death by _wildfire!”_

“Bonnie, it’s all right,” Ser Anders said, his hands up as he tried to calm his fellow knight down. “I understand…”

“That _woman _destroyed The Sept of Baelor, a holy house of the Seven That Are One, a monument of the true faith,” Bonifer continued, shaking his head as he used the word woman as a substitute for the curses he never uttered. “She became kinslayer, murdering her uncle, cousin, and gooddaughter, the reigning _queen_, in the process. I don’t care what was said about King Tommen leaping out of the Red Keep, I _know _that _woman _did everything but push the poor lad out the window herself. And that’s not even counting the hundreds of innocents lost in the explosion.” 

His eyes narrowed on the spot on the map where King’s Landing sat. “Any whorehouse madam in King’s Landing would be a better queen than that _faithless_ lioness. I propose to wait for the true queen to arrive.” The men surrounding him gave their assent with their silence.

#

**Ren**

For Marton Stoneman, the castle of Harrenhal was an endless list of work tasks that one could never catch up on, work that was rewarding but hard and never ending. For his son, however, it was a playground of never-ceasing wonders.

To Ren Stoneman, Harrenhal was a castle built for giants but used by humans. It was an ancient, three hundred years-plus old structure that was finished just as the great Aegon the Conqueror arrived on the shores of the Blackwater Rush. Soon afterward, he and his dragon turned the monument of Harren the Black’s domination of the Riverlands into a cautionary tale of opposing the dragon.

Harrenhal was a giant, ruined castle that could swallow a giant whole with its size, much less a young boy, with areas neglected or unused where no men wandered near for weeks or months on end. It was the perfect place for a boy to get lost, away from the eyes of his parents, and have his imagination keep him company.

That day, he had scrambled into the Wailing Tower, so called because the fires of Balerion had so cracked its walls that the northern winds passing through those cracks caused it to sound like people wailing in grief. Many said that the wails were really those of King Harren and his sons, but that never made sense to Ren because they had died in the Kingspyre Tower, not in the Wailing Tower.

Regardless, it was an ideal place for Ren to explore on his own. The lower floors only contained storerooms, granaries, and vaults, so people did not visit there on a regular basis. The entire upper two-thirds of the tower had not been occupied for the past eighty years, but Ren was easily able to make his way halfway up the deserted section of the tower. The structural integrity of the floors of the upper third of the tower were questionable at best, so he stayed away from those areas. However, it was plenty high enough for him to get a grand view of the fields around the castle.

There was so much to explore, so much to imagine, in the young boy’s mind. There were friends, sometimes, but there were other times that he preferred to be alone with his thoughts.

As he looked over the northern plains from his view in the tower, he pulled out two wooden figurines from his jacket pocket and sat them on a nearby table to look at. His father was a stonemason and a good one, and Ren was happy to help in the shop with Mother when Father was ill, but that was not his interest. 

He was happiest when he worked with wood, carved it, and shaped it into figurines that best fit his imagination. He wanted to work with wood for a living when he was older, even if it meant that he’d have to make tables and chairs as well as works of art. 

Unlike some boys but like his father, Ren never really dreamed of going into battle. The Riverlands had been a constant battleground for as long as he could remember. He’d never yet seen a battle, but he’d seen many soldiers returning from battles with limbs and eyes missing. He was glad Poppa had never left for war, and couldn’t picture himself leaving and how that would upset Momma and Perla.

But there was one thing about the army that was apparently approaching his home, the army led by a Queen with her own dragons. The septas at Harrenhal had said the dragons had died out many years ago, so long ago that they might have been only dreams in a little boy’s mind. 

It was right then that he heard a sound foreign to his ears, from outside. 

It was part rumble, part shriek, and part rattle all at once, and all Ren could guess at was that it came from a living thing. He streaked to the shattered stained-glass window of the room he was in and threw it open.

His breath caught in his throat as he saw two shapes weave through the air in the northern skies above. _Dragons _he immediately realized as he saw their scales and leathery wings.

The first of the flying reptiles he’d have thought was Balerion the Black Dread himself if not for the knowledge that _that _dragon had died centuries before his birth and that his skull was sitting somewhere in the depths of the Red Keep of King’s Landing. The creature was imperious and bulky, with black scales fringed with red. He could not tell how large the creature was, but the shadows of its wingspan seemed to cover the entire castle as it flew overhead. After a slow encirclement along the walls of Harrenhal, the creature darted up and perched onto the top of the Kingspyre tower, not to threaten, but to rest as it stared down with its blood-red eyes.

Its companion made two circuits around the walls. Its scales were emerald and eyes were bright yellow, and if it lacked the black dragon’s bulk, it more than made up for in the liveliness and speed of its flight. With a higher pitched rumbling shriek, it came to land on the top of the Widow’s Tower.

Ren’s eyes darted to the figures he had carved a few weeks ago, and back at their living companions. He was surprised at how accurately he’d depicted what such magnificent flying beasts would look like, but he was sure he could do even better now that he’d seen the dragons for himself, he thought excitedly to himself.

#

**Marton**

Ser Donton stuck his head out the window and looked above him in disbelief. “Can you all see this?” he laughed. “These big winged beasts are perched up above as casually as ravens sitting on tree branches.”

“At least they chose strong enough towers to rest on,” Ser Bonifer said, but then something else outside the window got his attention. “Nephew, get your spyglass out. I think they are here. Look north by northeast and you will see them, I think.”

Ser Donton did as his uncle requested, as Ser Bonifer, Marton, and the rest joined them by the window. “What do you see?” the castellan asked.

“You’re right, Uncle,” the younger man said. “Thousands of them for sure. All in column, on the march. More Dothraki outriders, and… some infantry, I don’t recognize them.”

“What do they look like?”

“They are darker-skinned, the color of dark tea. They have spiked helms, rounded shields, and long spears at the ready,” Ser Donton replied. “Short swords as well – bantam swords, between swords and long daggers.”

“Ah, the Unsullied,” Maester Tothmure replied. “The famed eunuch slave warriors of Astapor. It has been said that the dragon queen bought their freedom from the slave masters of that city, then bade them to slaughter them. I would think such a woman could command blind loyalty from such men.”

“So, the Dragon Queen for sure,” Ser Bonifer replied. “Nephew? Do you see any sigils among the column?”

“I do,” Ser Donton said. He was well taught by his uncle regarding the sigils of the houses of Westeros. “It seems all the houses of the North – Stark, Manderly, Reed, Umber, Karstark, many others. Many houses of the Vale, as well – Arryn, Royce, Redfort...”

“Do you see the sigil of this castle’s lord, either that of House Baelish or his personal sigil?” Ser Bonifer asked.

“No, Uncle, I do not,” Ser Donton said. After scanning the grounds before them, he confirmed, “I truly do not.”

“Any other sigils that you see?” Ser Bonifer said.

Ser Donton turned back to the window with his spyglass. “Several Riverlands houses, Uncle, including Houses Tully, Blackwood, Bracken, and Darry, among others. There are some that are both familiar and not familiar – I think I see the sigil of House Tarly among them…”

“Basically, what is before us is the combined military might of at least half Westeros and the imported army of Essos in service of the Dragon Queen,” concluded the older castellan.

“I’d say so, Uncle.”

“Very well,” Ser Bonifer concluded, turning to face the rest of his advisers. “Make sure to have the main gate open for them,” he said. “We will wait for them in the courtyard in front of the gatehouse. For fortune or ill, they will have control of this castle within a half hour.” Despite Ser Bonifer’s control, Marton could sense the tension spreading among both him and the other members of the Harrenhal household.

#

Marton found himself with Ser Bonifer and the others lined up in the courtyard just outside the main gatehouse of Harrenhal. It was a massive dark thing, easily the size of many castle keeps, with walls so thick any who went through the gates had to pass by a dozen murder holes from above and to the sides. Ser Bonifer had instructed the gatehouse be cleared by all except those needed to raise the gates and white flags raised to ensure no misunderstandings.

Bonifer stood in the center of the line, surrounded by his captains and the maester and septon. Marton himself was further out on the right side of the line with more of the other lesser staff. Two lines of servants and other workers at the castle were gathered behind the first.

With the perched dragons remaining surprisingly quiet as they looked down at the courtyard, a chorus of thudding hooves and the marching steps of infantry soldiers signaled the arrival of the Dragon Army.

About fifty Dothraki riders trotted into the courtyard and formed a wide circle around the greeting party, putting themselves between them and some scattered onlookers around the courtyard. They did not dismount, but faced outward, looking for danger.

They were followed by around a hundred of who had to be the Unsullied, with their spiked helmets, intimidating spears, and rounded shields. These men silently and in perfect order formed parallel lines on either side of the main gate, facing outward at the crowd.

Two riders then came between the gates, both on black horses, leading a procession of Westerosi riders and wheelhouses. The left-hand rider was a woman, about Marton’s age, wearing a bright crimson dress with silver trim, a silver dragon brooch by her left shoulder, and a black and red sigil over her left breast showing a three-headed dragon that even a Riverlands lad like Marton recognized. She also wore a black woolen cloak to stave off the winter chill that had now reached the Riverlands. Her long silver-blond hair was wrapped up in an intricate pattern of braids, and he could see that her eyes were violet, the first time he’d ever seen such a color in person. He realized that this must be the mysterious Dragon Queen returned home.

At her right-hand side rode a man, about the same age as the woman, with dark brown hair and beard and piercing gray eyes. He wore a black long-sleeved tunic and jacket with the Targaryen sigil, but he didn’t appear to be very Valyrian-looking from his coloring, at least. With a heavy black wolf-pelt cloak over his shoulders, he looked more like someone from the North than of, say, Dragonstone.

At first, he thought they were leading two other horses behind them, but as they passed out of the gatehouse, he saw they were _wolves, _massive ones at least the size of a strong pony. The one following the man was the larger of the two, white as the winter snow that regarded the crowd with glowing red eyes. The smaller of the two followed the woman, a light grey beauty with ghostly blue eyes.

_Direwolves?_ Marton thought, trying to remember what the septons of his childhood had said of such creatures. _They said those never traveled south of the Wall…_

The man dismounted from his horse and hurried to the left side of the woman, offering his hand to help her down off the horse. She seemed surprised at the gesture, but accepted it and his help to dismount herself.

A variety of people began to dismount around them. There were two women, one tall of fiery hair and a shorter, dark-haired woman in slacks rather than dress. They were accompanied by two armored men, one with what appeared to be a dog’s head helm and the other with shortened bull’s horns, complete with a surcoat showing a black bull’s head over two crossed warhammers.

A dark tea-colored man with a shaved head and wary dark eyes, in the uniform of the Unsullied, came to stand behind the Dragon Queen and her escort. They were joined by a beautiful young woman of the same coloring, with kinky dark hair that stood in what seemed like a puff about her head, and wearing a flowing khaki dress with a grey woolen cloak as a concession to the weather.

To Marton’s shock, he saw another knight, blond hair flecked with grey and a golden right hand, among the party. He recognized Ser Jaime Lannister, who had appointed Ser Bonifer to his position, and the stunted man with dark blonde hair and an elegant red silk tunic and brown leather coat and trousers had to be his brother the Imp. _If the queen’s brothers support the Dragon Queen, who is left to support her? _Marton wondered.

Ser Bonifer took two steps forward as the Dragon Queen and her escort approached him. “I am Ser Bonifer Hasty, castellan of Harrenhal,” he said in a voice that had just a touch of tremor to it. “May I ask who I am addressing?”

It was the young tea-colored woman who spoke for her. “You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, First of her name,” she began. At the name “Targaryen,” Ser Bonifer sank to one knee and bowed his head before her. As Marton, the household staff, and the other observers slowly bent the knee themselves, the woman continued. “High Queen of the Andals, Rhoynar, First Men, Ghiscari, and Valyrians. Lord of Westeros and New Valyria, and Protector of the Realms. The Khalessi of the Great Grass Sea. The Mother of Dragons, The Unburnt, and The Breaker of Chains.”

Then she came to stand by the side of the man in black. “You stand in the presence of Jaehaerys Lightbringer of House Targaryen, Third of his name, also known as Jon Snow of House Stark,” she said. “High King of the Andals, Rhoynar, First Men, Ghiscari, and Valyrians. Lord of Westeros and New Valyria, and Protector of the Realms. Friend to the Giants and the Children of the Forest. The Arisen, The Secret Dragon, and The White Wolf.”

At the end of the introduction, a rumbling shriek rang from the towers as the two dragons sent dragonsong rippling over the walls and outside fields of Harrenhal. The two wolves also let loose a dual howl, adding their harmonies to their scaled comrades. Once their voices died out, both dragons spread their wings and took flight, headed in a northerly direction.

While still kneeling, Ser Bonifer looked up at the man who was supposedly king. “My lo… Your Grace, you surely do not claim to be the son of Prince Rhaegar of Dragonstone and Princess Elia?”

The man – Jaehaerys? – shook his head. “I am the only trueborn son of Prince Rhaegar and his second bride, Princess Lyanna, formerly of House Stark. My trueborn uncle, Lord Eddard Stark, hid me and claimed me as his own bastard to save me the fate of my siblings.”

“There is proof of my husband’s true identity, if you wish to see it,” the queen said mildly.

“At your convenience, Your Grace, at your convenience,” Ser Bonifer said. He turned to Queen Daenerys. “You are the last child of King Aerys and Queen Rhaella, are you not?”

“I am,” she said.

“And you are married to this man?”

“We married in the eyes of the Old Gods, in the godswood of Jon’s home in Winterfell.”

“I see.” The king – Jaehaerys, or Jon? – waved his hand for everyone to stand, and Bonifer was the first to do so. He stared at the queen as if he was in a trance. “All praise to the Maiden, but you look so much like her,” he said, his voice shaking.

The queen stared at him in shock as all eyes were on them. “Like who, my mother?” The old knight nodded. “Did you know my mother?”

“I knew…” He stopped himself, shaking his head, then looked down at the ground, hands on hips, before he could continue. “I was a much younger man in the days I knew your mother, with many hopes and dreams. I got to know your mother very well. In those days, I had the faint hope that a landed knight like myself might have the _slightest_ chance of winning her hand in marriage. So, I courted her, and gained her affections. However… your grandfather decreed that she should marry her brother, your father, Aerys. And, we could not go against my sovereign’s plans and wishes, so we had to part. Regardless, my heart broke when I learned of her death so many years later.”

_Bonnie in love? Who would have ever thought old Bonnie Baelor would have fallen for a beauty? _Marton thought.

To everyone’s surprise, she began to approach the greying knight. “There… there was another?”

Bonifer shook his head. “No woman could take your mother’s place in my heart,” he said brokenly. “Only my faith and the Maiden, and my duties as a knight, were left for me.” He dove again down to one knee. “Allow me to serve in your Queensguard,” he said, drawing his sword and laying it down at her feet. “I am not the fighter I once was, but there is still plenty enough fight left inside me. Allow me to serve the daughter of Rhaella Targaryen, and keep her safe. I would also bring my company of knights, the Holy Hundred, into your service as well…”

His voice was stilled by the hand of the queen on his right shoulder. “Arise, Ser, and take up your sword,” she said, and Marton could swear there were unshed tears in her eyes. Bonifer sheathed his sword as she requested and stood up. “I gratefully accept your offer of service,” she said, her own voice unsteady, reaching up, hands on his shoulders, and kissing him on both cheeks. “And perhaps, if it would not be too much of a burden for your heart, you could gift me with some memories of my mother. I have none for myself.”

“I would be honored, Your Grace.”

It was then that the king approached Ser Bonifer and the queen. “Do you know why we are here?”

The knight turned to face him. “I assume you plan to rest here for a while, then go to the capital to press your claim to rule,” he said.

The king nodded. “That, and allow the remainder of our supporters to gather here in preparation for that movement.”

“There is another reason, as well,” the queen said. “Was Harrenhal not the location for the first of the great councils in 101 AC?”

“It was, actually, it was indeed,” Bonifer said.

“Well, we plan on it being the host of the Great Council of 305 AC,” the king said. “At that time, we plan to declare our right to the throne of the High Kingdom of Westeros and New Valyria.”

That puzzled the old knight. “High Kingdom, Your Grace?”

“Perhaps we should discuss this in private, with our men,” the queen suggested.

“Oh, absolutely, of course,” the knight said. “Follow me to Hunter’s Hall. There’ll be plenty enough space for us there… plenty enough space everywhere, to be honest.”

The royal couple, their entourage, and the household staff followed Ser Bonifer toward the hall, with a small but curious crowd of smallfolk following them.

Ser Jaime came up to Ser Bonifer as they walked along. “Ser Bonifer, good to see you. You’re looking well, the castle looks well.”

“As do you, Ser Jaime.”

“You don’t need to flatter me, Bonifer, I’m not looking like I once did,” he said, holding up his golden hand.

“I must say, I’m surprised that you and your brother are in the service of the true queen rather than your sister.”

“Tyrion is Hand to the Queen and King. My sister wishes him dead and I believe it is a mutual thing. As for me… she’s lost the moral right to rule. She’s changed.”

“Indeed,” Bonifer intoned.

“My sister’s troops already left here?” Jaime asked.

“Three days ago,” Bonifer said.

“Did they leave any birds about, any spies?” the short, young, pants-wearing grey-eyed girl said abruptly.

Bonifer stared back behind him at her, not sure what to make of her appearance and query. “You are, young lady…?”

“My sister, Lady Arya Stark,” the king said. “She serves as our Minister of Whispers, our spymaster.”

“Er… apologies, My Lady,” the knight replied. “I am not sure if the Lannisters left any spies about. That business… I was never familiar with it. Perhaps some of my men would have a better idea of such things.”

Arya nodded to him and then turned to the king. “Our birds here will fly around, see what they can see and hear.” She turned back to the castellan. “The Dothraki scouts will remain outside. There will be no one that leaves this castle or the surrounding area for King’s Landing without our approval. No one, understood?”

“Very well, My Lady,” Ser Bonifer said. “Your Grace, I had a question. Lord Petyr Baelish is the lord of this castle, but he has not been seen or heard of in some time. Do you have any word of him?”

“He’s dead, executed on the orders of my sister, Lady Sansa Stark, Wardeness of the North,” Arya replied. “The charges were the murders of my uncle and aunt, Lord Jon and Lady Lyssa Arryn, and conspiring with Cersei Lannister to falsly accuse our father of treason, leading to _his_ death.”

“Ah… yes, I see. Understandable, under the circumstances,” the castellan replied. Marton thought he seemed a bit unnerved by the girl’s glare.

“We’ll determine who should be the rightful lord of this place at a later date,” the king replied. “Until such time, Her Grace and myself will take personal responsibility for Harrenhal, but there will be no changes to the household staff for now.”

“Very well, Your Grace.”

#

In Hunter’s Hall, everyone was gathered around a large map of the entire known world laid out onto one of the long tables. The king was pointing out locations on the map to Ser Bonifer as the others watched. It was a strange sight to see the large direwolves enter the room with the royal couple and sit like any housedogs next to the queen, who sat on a bench on the opposite side of the table.

“New Valyria is what we call the territories that the queen liberated before coming to Westeros,” the king said, pointing to the southern coast of Essos. “Slaver’s Bay and all its cities are now under our rule, and it is now known as Dragon’s Bay. That, the Dothraki Sea, what remains of the old Valyrian Peninsula, and Ghiscar are under our control.”

“Thus, being parts of this… High Kingdom,” Ser Bonifer replied.

“It is a far more sophisticated thing than simply the Seven Kingdoms,” the man he recognized as Tyrion Lannister saying. “Kingdoms both directly and indirectly governed by the High King and Queen coming together in one entity joined not by blood or faith, but by an idea for freedom and liberty for all its citizens.”

“My Lord, you will pardon me if I and everyone else here doesn’t quite understand this perfectly,” the castellan said.

“Of course,” the queen said as both direwolves laid their snouts on her lap. “It’s a new thing for everyone, but it will be the key to ending the cycles of division and violence among our people and toward a new, prosperous future.”

“Excuse me, Your Graces, but we will have more visitors soon?” Maester Tothmure said.

“Indeed,” the king said, returning to the map. “There will be a contingent of Reach houses, including Houses Tarley, Redwyne, and Hightower, that will be coming overland. They’ll follow the Roseroad until it reaches the Mander, then head overland to where the Goldroad crosses the Blackwater. Once they cross that, they’ll head North to Harrenhal. They should be here in one or two weeks.”

“Archmaester Embrose of the Citadel and the new High Septon will also be among their party,” Queen Daenerys said. “As part of the Great Council, we intend to renew our marriage vows in a Faith of the Seven ceremony. The High Septon himself has offered to conduct the ceremony, in the… Hundred Hearths Hall, as it’s called?”

“Yes,” Romun said. “I think it would be a wonderful gesture to the faithful.”

“Indeed,” Bonifer said.

“Yes, I do know how strong the Faith is in Westeros, but I will say, my army contains believers in the Seven, the Old Gods, the Drowned God, the Lord of Light, and many others,” the queen said. “We plan to ensure that all feel free to worship the faith of their choice without fear of suppression.”

“Understood, Your Grace,” Bonifer said.

“The others will come by sea to avoid running into forces loyal to Cersei,” the king continued. “A garrison from Dragonstone, led by our Minster of Sail, Ser Davos Seaworth, will head toward us. They will land at Maidenpool and head west to Harrenhal. House Mooten is among the Riverlands houses pledged to us; they will not come here, but stand watch over the roads between Maidenpool and King’s Landing in the event Cersei’s forces attempt to interfere with the landings in some way. They will be followed by representatives from Dorne, sailing from Sunspear, and representatives of the Stormlands sailing from the Isle of Tarth. They will land at Maidenpool as well.”

“You sure the sailing will be safe from there?” Ser Anders spoke up.

“Euron Greyjoy only has a few hundred longboats at his disposal in the harbor of King’s Landing, thanks to a raid by his nephew Theon Greyjoy,” the king said. “He would not be able to challenge the forces of his nephew and those left behind by Ser Davos.”

“Very well,” Bonifer said. “What now?”

“I think the Queen and the remainder of our party might want to find a place to stay here,” the king said.

“I believe Maester Tothmure would be able to see to your needs, Your Graces,” Ser Bonifer said.

“Indeed,” Tothmure said. “Your Grace, I was wondering if you would need particular accommodations for… these sizable lads,” he said, pointing at the two direwolves.

The queen chuckled at that as she ruffled the heads of both the direwolves. “Lad and _lass_, Ghost and Spirit, respectively. Thank you, but I think it’s likely that they would stay in our rooms, as has been their habit recently.”

“They might go out later to hunt, so your men can open the gates for them when that happens,” the king said. “Don’t worry, they’ll find their way back.”

“If necessary, we can have our scaled children, Drogo and Rhaegal, stay outside the castle if need be,” the queen said. “We can make sure their needs will be attended to.”

“Actually, Your Grace, the godswood here covers twenty acres, much larger than the one in Winterfell, I believe,” Bonifer said. “I think we could squeeze them in there if they wouldn’t mind.”

“I don’t think they would mind, thank you, Ser,” the queen said. “I think they are tolerating winter better in the Riverlands than in the North.”

“I’ll join the queen later, but I was wondering if I could take a quick tour of the castle, see what its general condition was,” the king said.

“Ah, actually, I know who might be able to help you with that… Marton? Over here.”

Jumping after he heard his name, Marton hurried over to the castellan and the king. “Ser, Your Grace.”

“Marton Stoneman here is our head stonemason, so he’s been taking the lead on the regular maintenance to the castle,” Ser Bonifer said.

“Ah, good,” the king said, pointing to the exit, “mind if we look around?”

Marton nodded hastily. “Of course, Your Grace.”

“Good, lead the way.”

#

“Don’t act so nervous, Marton, I’m probably not the first king you ever met, am I?” King Jaehaerys said as they climbed to the top of the southern wall, trailed by two Unsullied guards the Lady Arya insisted accompany the two as she began her work to ensure none of Qyburn’s birds or the false queen’s loyal men remained.

“Actually, you are, Your Grace, but there has been… what, five sovereigns of the Seven Kingdoms during my life, counting the Lannister Queen? And now six, counting you?”

“Seven, including my wife… although we will not merely be rulers of the Seven Kingdoms. Gods, I must admit that is a beautiful sight,” he said, staring out over the God’s Eye. “This was where my parents met, maybe? I know my father crowned my mother the Queen of Love and Beauty after he won the great tournament here, but I don’t know whether they first met then or sometime before. Don’t imagine you’re old enough to know, obviously.”

“I’m not from here, either,” he said. “I was born and raised in the northern Riverlands, in the lands of House Blackwood.”

“What brought you here?”

Marton leaned on one of the battlements as he stared out over the lake. “Mother died when I was nine giving birth to my second sister. My older sister died giving birth herself, then my father was killed in an accident with the lord’s cattle he was tending. I was twelve by then.”

“There was no one to care for you?”

“I had an older brother, Mallor, but he’d gone to serve as a bannerman with House Tully after my sister’s death. A woman, a healer in my village about six and twenty, took me in. I thought she was just being kind, or giving me a place to stay for helping around the house. But… she… kept me for her own enjoyment.”

The king realized what he’d meant, but Marton was surprised to feel the king’s hand on his shoulder. “One of my brothers of the Night’s Watch, he’d been… he’d been a prostitute in his boyhood days before coming to the Wall,” he said. “I did not look down on him for that. You were unable to protect yourself, still a child. You should not blame yourself for what happened.”

“I know,” he sighed, nodding. “It took me a while, but I know that now.”

“How did you escape?”

“When I was six and ten, she said that she wanted to have a baby with me,” Marton said, looking back over the lake. “I decided to run away. She tried to stop me, so I hit her over the head with a bottle and ran from our village. Never looked back. I don’t know if I killed her… I never heard of anyone hunting for me.

“After wandering for a while, I came to Harrenhal. Eventually, I apprenticed myself to my predecessor as head stonemason, Armen. He had a granddaughter that he was raising, Penny. We fell in love and married maybe a year after I arrived. We raised our family here, cared for Armen in his final years… this is my home, now.”

“You never knew what happened to your brother?”

“Lost track of him when I ran here. For all I know, he might have died alongside your brother at some point. Your older brother was King in the North, was he not?”

“Yes, he was. A good man,” the king said, staring off over the wall alongside Marton. “I can speak with Lord Tully, have him talk to you.”

“He’d likely not know the fate of one of his lower bannermen, though.”

“No harm in asking. At least you might know.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

“Now, then,” Jaehaerys said, turning back to stare up at the five towers, “How would you describe your home to me?”

Marton thought for a moment. “It’s like something I often say to Ser Bonifer – the place is sound enough, but it would take the Smith descending from the stars to fully sort this place out.”

That earned him a chuckle from the king. “By all means, continue, Stoneman.”

Marton waved to the battlements at his back. “The walls are the soundest parts of the castle, those and the three gatehouses,” he explained. “There’s a few cracks here and there, but nothing that can’t be sorted with fresh mortar and perhaps some bracing.” He raised both hands high up in the sky. “The towers are the worst of it. All their tops are melted in some way, none are standing truly straight, and the damage to the Wailing Tower and the Tower of Ghosts,” pointing each out in turn, “is so bad that the upper two-thirds of those towers are all but abandoned. As for the rest of the buildings, it’s a mix. The ones that get used are in decent shape, and sizable enough for any Great Council you are considering, but large portions of this place have sat abandoned for decades.

“It’s like… it’s what it must be like being the maester of an aging king, or one suffering from a chronic disease. You do what you can, but you can never quite put it right. When Harren the Black built this place, I don’t think he ever thought of what it would require to maintain it. Then your ancestor came here and barbecued the place, and we’ve been in the same spot for the past three hundred years.”

“Marton, you said you hadn’t had the chance to make a recent tour of the castle, but do you have written plans for the castle somewhere?”

“In my shop,” Marton said. “If you’d like, Your Grace, I’ll take you there now. It’s right on the way to where I think Maester Tothmure will have you stay.”

“Very well.”

#

“Quite detailed. Impressive,” the king said as he stared at the set of schematics of Harrenhal on a workbench in Marton’s shop. It was deserted, with Marton having given his helpers the rest of the day off to see if they needed to help with the influx of new visitors. “Can I hang on to these?”

“Help yourself – I have copies of these with the rest of my papers. I’ll get started on the inspection tomorrow and report to you as soon as I’m done.” He looked down at the sketches. “This place can teach you how to properly design a castle and how to do it improperly,” he said, chuckling.

Before the king could ask what he meant by that, a brown blur raced into the shop and bear-hugged Marton around his legs. “Poppa! Did you see them? Did you see…?” His son’s voice trailed off as he saw the man in black opposite his father.

Penny and Perla were right behind him. “Well, we finally found him hanging out by the stables… oh.” She stopped in her tracks.

“Hello, family,” Marton said. “This is the new king, Jaehaerys of House Targaryen. Your Grace, my wife, Penny, and my children, Ren and Perla.”

The two flustered youngsters attempted the most awkward of bows as Penny curtsied. “Your Grace, I’m sorry for interrupting…” she said, flustered, wiping her hands on her apron, “welcome to our home… I was going to get dinner started for the children…”

“My apologies, my lady, for coming here without advance notice,” the king said, smiling and bowing to her. “Please, go ahead. I’ll conclude my business with your husband soon enough.”

“Do you actually ride them? The dragons, like the dragonriders of old?” Ren squeaked out as his sister fixed him with a stare of death for his silliness.

“Sometimes,” the king said, bending down so he could talk to the youngster face to face, his grey eyes now meeting the boy’s hazel ones. “I ride the emerald one. He’s named Rhaegal, after my father.”

Ren’s hands had been stuffed in his pockets, but now he withdrew the two dragon figures he’d had earlier, wings spread and ready to fly, and presented them to the dark-haired king. “For you, Your Grace.”

“_Ren,” _Perla squealed in disbelief, ignoring her mother’s attempts to calm her down, “Kings don’t play with toys…”

“For your children, then, Sire… or your future children,” Ren added.

The last phrase seemed to startle King Jaehaerys. He accepted the two wooden figures and held them up to the candlelight. “I can tell you not too many adults in the North could carve wood figures so well, never mind young boys.” He bent back down to talk with Ren. “You wish to be a woodcarver when you grow up?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“You’ve got a good start on it. Thank you very much.”

“Well, our apologies for interrupting,” Penny said, collecting her son. “Your Grace.” She turned and stood on her tiptoes to give Marton a kiss. “Husband. See you soon.” She led a starstruck boy and a disbelieving little girl into the kitchen area of the building.

“It must be quite a challenge keeping up with children, raising them well,” the king said. “Mine haven’t even left their mother’s womb yet and it’s already weighing on my mind.”

To Marton’s shock, he realized that not only had the king just admitted his queen was expecting, but he was asking for his advice as a father. “It can be a weight, my King,” he said. “You try to do the best you can, and don’t let them forget that you love them. If you manage that, it should wind up well in the end.”

“Thank you.” He turned and pointed to the schematics on the table. “You want to know why I want to know how sturdy this castle is? There’s only three things that might happen in the next month. One, Cersei Lannister stays in King’s Landing, and I and the queen will have to get her out of there. Two, we _think _she’s staying put there, but when we head to King’s Landing, she attempts to surprise us before we get there. Three, she decides to come here and surprise us in this castle. In the last case, we need to know how good our defenses are.”

“Begging your pardon, King Jaehaerys…”

“Jon… King Jon, you… Gods’ this is awkward,” the king said, shaking his head. “Get called Jon Snow for the first three and twenty years of your life and you don’t get out of the habit. Anyway, go ahead.”

“Yes… King Jon. Anyway, I’m honestly hoping we don’t see _any_ fighting over here. I’ll be honest, Your Grace, there’s been nearly seven years of fighting and the smallfolk here, at least, are getting weary of it.”

He was expecting perhaps a scolding from King Jon, but he instead got a nod of approval. “I can tell,” he said. “Imagine having to _do _that fighting for that past time. Most of the time since I joined the Night’s Watch has been fighting for me. I’m good at it, but Gods I’m tired. I look forward to worrying about raising my children right and negotiating trade routes rather than killing people.”

For a moment, Marton couldn’t speak, but he finally choked out, “Thank you, Your Grace.”

“Trust me, Marton Stoneman, I am going to do everything in my power to make sure that this fighting ends as soon as possible and with as little blood shed as possible, to keep our children and the rest of the children safe. I’m going to need help to do it, and I’m going to need _your _help for this part of it. Can I count on your skills, mason?”

It was then that Jon Snow became Marton Stoneman’s king. “You will have it, Your Grace,” he said, and kneeled before him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was another massive chapter even after I sliced what I was going to put into it and save it for another chapter. Just a few notes.
> 
> 1\. Marton is a totally OC for this story. I thought it might be a good change of pace to get perspective on the great castle of Harrenhal from someone who lives there, and also that person's perspective on the royal couple and soon to be living legends of Jon and Dany.
> 
> 1a. Marton's daughter's name was a blatant reference to the Love and Rockets series by Los Bros Hernandez. Always liked that series and the artwork.
> 
> 2\. Ser Bonifer Hasty is a book canon character I learned about in my research for this chapter. (I've seen most of the TV series, and I have read the first book (AGOT) from the book series.) To my knowledge, Dany and Ser Bonifer have not yet met in the books, but given his history and his character, he would be an interesting addition to the Army of the High Kingdom. The other members of the Harrenhal household staff are a mix of OCs and book characters.
> 
> 3\. We will come back to Harrenhal soon, but we might have to spend a chapter or two to see what is going on in King's Landing. There will be intrigue, pageantry, and the odd bit of fluff coming up, but get ready for the rumbles when they come.
> 
> As always, take care everyone, and feel free to respond in the comments. I'll be happy to say hi and listen to any critiques you might have.


	40. A Lioness Rampant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As more sell-swords join the Army of the Seven Kingdoms, word of The Long Night and the Army of the High King’s progress reaches King’s Landing. Queen Cersei feels the pressure as she considers two offers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, back to King's Landing and the challenge of writing Cersei Lannister. Hope you enjoy what I've cooked up.

40.

**Cersei**

_Except for my babe, I am truly alone in this world._

Truthfully, the thought had first come to her the day Jaime had left for the North. At the time, though, she’d thought that it was just a temporary thing, one of any number of quarrels the siblings and lovers had over the course of four decades. That’s why she allowed him to call her bluff when she asked him to stay. That’s what she thought, but then weeks turned to months with no sign of him returning from the North. _Now _he was returning, but alongside a pretender dragon queen that she hated now more than she’d ever thought to have hated anyone, her who had been the daughter of Tywin Lannister and the queen of Robert Baratheon.

_Robert, _she thought as she crossed the bridge of Maegor’s Holdfast to walk toward the small council chambers, desperately trying not to look like she was waddling when it felt like all she could do. _I used to jape at you behind your back when you’d let Jon Arryn run your kingdom while you hunted and drank and whored your time away, but I’m finding myself even _more_ bored with the niggling details of rule than you ever were. Even dragging myself to the small council chambers is a chore – I can’t even remember the last time I braved a walk up the winding steps to make my way to the Great Hall and sit on the Iron Throne. Wielding power was always enjoyable, but everything else was just a chore, and to attempt it sober… _She shook her head.

_Qyburn and Euron are still with me, but they are here because the former rules my kingdom for me and the latter would wish to do so. The Mountain is with me because Qyburn… directs him to do so. The rest of my Queensguard, the gold cloaks, the bannermen of House Lannister and the other houses, do so because it would benefit them. Everyone is happy… for now. But when the food supplies start running out in three months… if the smallfolk decide to revolt… ugh._

She entered the small council chambers, trailed by the hulking Ser Gregor and Ser Boros Blount of the Queensguard. Waiting for her, sitting at the table, were Qyburn, Ser Harry Strickland of the Golden Company, and Rozaz Hizir. Also, there at the table were Lord Willam Trant, representing the forces of the Stormlands who had pledged themselves to Cersei, and Lord Daeron Vaith, who represented those in Dorne pledging themselves to her. In addition, Rodrik Blacktyde, one of Euron’s leading captains, sat in place of his Rock and Salt King.

Ever since the raid by his nephew, Euron had been less conspicuous at the council meetings, busy with trying to refurbish his fleet and in a drawn-out but finally successful effort to raise his flagship _The Silence. _He’d also been less bothersome for her romantic attentions, which she silently thanked the Seven for, as her interest in that, especially from him, had declined as the baby weighed increasingly on her.

She was thankful for the comfortable chair in the small council chamber reserved for her – she found that she now needed two layers of cushions to make sitting on the Iron Throne bearable for any length of time. “Your report, My Hand,” she said, nodding to him after she sat down.

Qyburn nodded in return. “We have confirmed from our birds that the Dragon Pretender’s army has arrived in Harrenhal,” he said. “They appear to be using the castle to refit and resupply, as well as waiting for more reinforcements.”

“Any news on our garrison?” she said.

“None in particular, although our birds in the Westerlands have reports of some scattered deserters returning there,” Qyburn said.

“You are certain of their numbers?”

Qyburn nodded. “At most, 25,000, maybe as low as 20,000, the majority of these either Dothraki and Unsullied.”

“These undead must have taken a lot out of them up north,” Cersei commented. “Jaime thought it was madness to just let them go without our helping them, but it might be the best decision I ever made. And the dragon bitch?”

“The songs remain the same,” Qyburn said. “She was severely hurt or wounded in the fighting. Her dragons were hurt as well, likely severely, fighting against the dead. The King of the North, Jon Snow, holds operational command of the forces, but the Essoi do not fully trust him. And from our examination of the letter you received, it appears that it was his hand that wrote it. There is something else, Your Grace, something… unbelievable, from the bird song, but I feel I have to report it.”

Cersei gave him a bland stare. “Go ahead.”

“According to our birds, this Jon Snow… is suddenly proclaiming himself to be a Targaryen heir.”

Her jaw dropped for a moment, but then she doubled over, cackling in disbelief. “Targaryen heir?” she said, immediately regretting her laughing fit due to the accompanying side stitch. “How does he explain that, being the bastard of Ned Stark?”

“He claims not to be the bastard son of Ned Stark, but the trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark,” Qyburn replied. “He claims that Lord Stark claimed him as his own to hide him from your late husband’s wrath.”

Cersei was silent for a minute, her emerald eyes unfocused and staring off into the distance. Finally, she shook her head as she folded her hands in her lap. “It appears that he is trying to usurp her claim to the throne.”

“That was my thinking, precisely,” Qyburn said. “That and many other things give me the picture of an unsteady opposition, Your Grace.”

“Many other things? What do you mean by that?”

“I have also received word of the death of Lord Varys, apparently somewhere in the North,” Qyburn responded. “My birds say that Lord Tyrion has temporarily assumed his duties.”

“For all my brother’s cleverness, I doubt him to be a spymaster. Very well, thank you for your report.” She turned to Rozaz Hizir. “Did any more of the sellswords arrive from the Free Cities?” she asked.

Rozaz nodded in the affirmative. “Today the Wild Geese Company of Volantis arrived on the docks, 8,000 strong of infantry,” he said. “In addition to their pay, they are very motivated to fight for us.”

“Indeed?” Cersei said, eyebrow raised.

“Indeed, Your Grace. Volantis now sits on the western edge of the territory claimed by the Dragon Pretender. In the minds of many there, they worry the Dragon Pretender may turn her eyes to them, to put them under her rule and take their slaves away from them.”

“Good to know,” she said. She turned to Lord Willam and Lord Daeron. “And the two of you have brought… how many men to answer my call?”

“About 5,500 in total, Your Grace,” Lord Willam said. He shared the droopy eyes and reddish hair and beard of his late uncle and member of the Kingsguard. “3,000 of the Stormlanders and 2,500 from Dorne.”

The queen leaned back in her chair, not quite keeping her eyes from rolling back into her head. “I had hoped that your contributions would be… greater than that.”

“Pardon, My Queen, but the Stormlands have been ravaged by the past wars,” Lord Willam said. “The losses Lord Stannis incurred with his foolish attacks on King's Landing and Winterfell hollowed out our manpower.”

“And yet I do not see many houses answering your call,” she replied. “House Selmy, House Tarth…”

“Begging the queen’s pardon, but Lord Arstan still remembers that you dismissed his great-uncle from your service,” Lord Willam said. “As for the Evenstar… his only daughter serves the Lady Sansa of House Stark. Would you expect a man to wage war on his own daughter?”

She snorted at the lord’s reasoning. “Don’t worry yourself into an early grave, my lord. If you fight halfway decent for me, Storm’s End and the Stormlands are yours.” She turned to Lord Daeron, a light-coffee colored man with straight black hair and chocolate eyes. “So, what’s your excuse?”

“Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but where to start?” the man said. “The death of the Red Viper? The capture and death of Ellaria Sand and her daughters? Many in Dorne still see those as great affronts. The North is not the only land that forgets, and I have only been able to rally some of the minor houses to your cause…”

“You’d think that Dorne would no longer care about a dead house like House Martell…” she replied.

“Actually, that is not true, Your Grace,” Qyburn said. “It is true Prince Doran, Prince Oberyn, Lady Ellaria, and three of the Sand Snakes are no longer among the living, but five of the Sand Snakes still live.”

“What of these remaining women?” Cersei spit out. “What do we know of them?”

“The eldest remaining of the daughters is Sarella Sand,” Qyburn said. “She had apparently spent many years in Oldtown for some unknown purpose, but our birds say she is no longer there, having left shortly after the capture of her mother. The second eldest, Elia, is apparently making an alliance with Lord Edric Dayne, nephew of the Sword of the Morning. The three youngest, Obella, Dorea, and Loreza, are being kept under close guard in Sunspear, out of reach of our forces.”

“Just perfect,” groaned Cersei.

“Your Grace? I wanted to say something,” Harry Strickland called out.

“Go ahead, Captain,” she said.

“With the forces that we started off with, in addition to the 8,500 soldiers we gained from stripping our garrisons of men, we now have well over 40,000 soldiers, sailors, and marines under our command,” he said. “Considering the Hand’s reports, that places us at least close to a two to one advantage above the Dragon Pretender’s forces, with apparent tension within their camp.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “Now might be the time for us to leave our defensive positions and attempt to take them by surprise, wipe them out before we have to face them here.”

She scowled at him. “They are at _Harrenhal, _do you not remember, one of the largest castles of the Seven Kingdoms? Do you happen to have a collection of siege equipment at the ready for such a task?”

“At the very least, we could lie in wait for them when they make their move toward King’s Landing, surely?” Strickland countered. “The route would be obvious; they would likely take the Kingsroad…”

“That’s something I’d have to give more thought to,” Cersei said, waving him off. “It’s a big risk – maybe a good one, but I’d have to give it more thought.” She turned to the sea captain. “And how has my betrothed been keeping busy?” she said. “I imagine his burdens have been heavy – I’ve barely seen him recently.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Rodrik said. “The successful raising of _The Silence _has taken up much of his time…”

“He planning to raise the entirety of his fleet from Blackwater Bay?” She couldn’t keep the chuckles from escaping her throat.

“Not likely, Your Grace, but he has busied himself with other preparations.”

“There does seem to be an unusual amount of activity down at the docks,” she said.

“The admiral is ensuring that all of the ships are ready and supplied to leave at a moment’s notice, whether it is to defend the capital or to flee.”

“I do _NOT _intend to flee from my capital…” she snarled at him.

“I understand, Your Grace, but your betrothed wishes to prepare for every possible situation, no matter how remote,” Rodrik said. “In addition, he plans to continue to send ships out to scout the movements of the Dragon Pretender’s ships around Dragonstone and beyond.”

She slumped in her chair, whatever energy she’d mustered for this meeting now well expended. “Very well,” she said. “Leave me for now. We will meet again in two days time.”

With a chorus of “Your Grace,” everyone left the room, with Ser Boros and Ser Gregor waiting outside the door.

After everyone had left, she withdrew two letters from the folds of her dress. She’d received both of them a week ago from that day. The first of them had been given to her by Qyburn from a raven arriving from Harrenhal. She opened that up to read it once again.

_ Lady Cersei, _

_ _

_ I intend to press my claim to the Iron Throne presently. You should be aware that our forces are more than sufficient to take King’s Landing and overcome any opposition there. For the sake of the people of the Seven Kingdoms, we would ask you to surrender yourself and your forces to us. We would allow you to return to Casterly Rock and live in peace if you renounce all claims to the Iron Throne and any schemes against my rule. I await your response. _

_ _

_ Yours respectfully, _

_ _

_ Queen Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, _

_ Rightful Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms _

_ _

_Typical claptrap_, she thought as she folded up that letter. _Did they think that she’d believe all that garbage about living in peace back in Casterly Rock? And that she would be willing to submit herself to internal exile as a result?_

She thought for a while, about the claims Qyburn had made about Jon Snow. She played around with them for a while in her mind, until the the thought came unbidden to her: _It’s true. All of it, it’s true._

_Ned Stark… _She considered the stuffy old noble Northman. _Would he be willing to lie? Would he be willing to throw away his honor? Of course he would, you stupid cow, that’s what he did at the end of his life. _He’d believed so much in honor, but in the end, he’d been willing to throw it away, falsely declare himself a traitor, all to save the lives of his daughters. _Wouldn’t he have been willing to throw away his virtue to protect his nephew from my king husband? _she thought.

_Ned, oh Ned, _she pondered, _I truly underestimated you. If you had told me that you were willing to give me a Targaryen heir, even as you had your head on the chopping block… never mind restoring your titles, I might have even named you King of the North for such a deed. Even Joffrey would see why you should be spared. Eddard Stark… you were far more cunning and thoughtful than I ever gave you credit for._

It was the second letter, however, that gave her pause. A courier had delivered this letter, directly to her if under the watchful eyes of her Queensguard. It was sealed with a wax figure of a direwolf. And if the first letter sounded stuffy with diplomacy, this letter sang with pure truth.

_ Lion Bitch, _

_ _

_ I first heard of your eldest son’s death when I lived in Braavos, studying to be one of the Faceless Men. I swear to you by the old gods and the new that no one cried longer and with more bitter tears than myself that night in Braavos. For it was then that I realized that I would never have the pleasure of killing Joffrey Waters myself. _

_ _

_ I pray to the Old Gods that not killing your son will be the greatest regret of my life. However,  _ you _still live, and I must deal with you. I once had a lengthy list of those I needed to kill. Your son sat on top of that list for a long time, but now it is _you _who is left on that list._

_ _

_Know that my brother and goodsister will attempt to appeal to your reason to surrender yourself, but I know there is no reason to be appealed to. Ignore their pleas to you – _**I** _am the one you should concern yourself with._

_ However, although I am known as the Wild Wolf, the Vengeance of the North who obliterated House Frey and many other enemies of my house, I am also the daughter of Lord Eddard Stark. It is he who taught me mercy, and he who offered you the same, I think, even though it cost him his life in the end. _

_ _

_ In his spirit, thus, I do offer you mercy. If you leave King’s Landing and Westeros, I will spare my hand. You may travel anywhere you wish, if it is outside Westeros. Personally, I think that the Free Cities would be the most suitable place for you. My recommendation would be Pentos or Braavos, myself – I did fall in love with Braavos during my time there. _

_ _

_ If you do this, and forswear any vengeance against my family or interference in the workings of Westeros, I not only guarantee that I will not slay you, but I guarantee you my protection against all harm. However, if you do not leave King’s Landing before my arrival, or if you break this agreement, your life is forfeit.  _

_ _

_ As for your child, if it lives, it will receive my protection regardless of your decision. If you choose to leave Westeros, your child may live with you. If you break this agreement or fail to leave Westeros, I will take your child and return it to its father to raise. _

_ _

_ These are the only terms you will receive from me. Winter is Coming, Cersei Lannister. If you value your life, best make preparations. _

_ _

_ Lady Arya Stark _

Cersei racked her brain, conjuring up the image to match the name. She remembered a mess of a girl with tangled chestnut hair, no manners, and bad intentions. She recalled the incident with her and Joffrey beside the Red Fork. _I’d thought such a creature would not survive, but I suppose I was wrong,_ she thought. _Now she comes after me… one of the Faceless Men? I know of them, but does she jape about that? I can feel her anger through the page, but is this the whole truth?_

She wanted to know what was the right path to take, but it was unclear for her. There was a good portion of her that wanted to leave, take any gold and jewelry that she could carry, and her child, as far as she could away from this place, to some far city in the East where she could find shelter. However, another portion, with a voice that sounded much like her late lord father, berated her for abandoning the Iron Throne that she’d spent her entire life trying to reach.

As she stood up to make her way back to her chambers, she was struck with a searing pain around her belly, a vise grasping her and freezing her in place. It seemed to both wrap around her midsection and stab out through her center between her legs, and her heart dropped at what it meant for her and her child.

She screamed in agony as she fell to the floor on her back, arms wrapped around her stomach in a desperate effort to protect the life inside her. She heard the cries of Ser Boros and others, calling for help, but even more clearly, she heard her own father’s voice.

_Many people, in wishing not to make poor decisions, decide not to make those decisions,_ she heard inside her head. _However, what they do not realize is the paradox of such an action. Even though they do not decide, the act of _not _deciding is a decision of itself. And thus, you place your fate in the actions of others._

_Would you laugh or cry at the sight of me, father? _she wondered as she slid into glorious unconsciousness.

#

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, just a couple of things:
> 
> 1\. I had to throw in Tywin's paraphrase of a great Rush lyric. "If you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice." Rest in Power Neil Peart (1952-2020), who provided much of the song track and lyrics to my youth.
> 
> 2\. Next chapter will be one more look at King's Landing. Chapter title will be: What Is Dead May Never Die.
> 
> 3\. There will be a new POV character. Any guesses to who it is?
> 
> 4\. We'll soon get back to Harrenhal and all the stuff happening there. At least two weddings are imminent.
> 
> 5\. Hope all of you are staying safe and all of you who choose to write are keeping busy writing. Please feel free to use the comment section - I promise I will respond back to you. Thanks, everyone.


	41. What Is Dead May Never Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Kraken King makes a bid to win his queen’s war and preserve his place by her side with a daring gambit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone. Hope all are doing well.
> 
> We've got a new POV character for this chapter; have fun reading.
> 
> [EDIT: 6.21.2020 - The story has now officially expanded to a minimum 55 chapters. At this point I'm going to say it will end up being somewhere around 55-60 chapters.]

41.

**Euron**

He didn’t visit the queen’s chambers for hours after he’d first got word of her collapse. That was not due to any insensitivity to her condition, or due to the momentary chill in their relationship. The Hand had made it clear the maesters would be busy enough trying to care for her that his presence would not be needed or even helpful. It was not until well after sunset, six hours after the first message, that the rightful King of Rock and Salt received word from Qyburn that Queen Cersei was “out of danger.”

Euron stalked toward Maegor’s Holdfast and her quarters, keeping his emotions to himself. Growing up in the house of Quellon Greyjoy, Euron had to learn to hide what he felt and what he thought as a matter of course. It had proven to be useful training for his time in the court of the queen of the Seven Kingdoms, so he was prepared for what was to come.

Joined by his leading captain, Rodrik Blacktyde, he approached the door to the queen’s chambers, guarded by Sers Gregor and Boros. The latter of the two huffed as he opened the door.

Cersei seemed shrunken as she laid in the middle of the massive four-poster bed, wearing what appeared to be a black silk dressing gown and nightdress. Her gold hair, which she’d kept relatively short after being shorn by the Faith Militant, was either matted or stuck out randomly from her head. She almost appeared pale green, with dark circles underneath her closed eyes. Two maesters were hovering over her, making sure that she got water and checking her condition.

Euron’s mask of concern was already on as he approached Qyburn, who waited for him between the door and the bed. “Her condition?” he whispered to him.

Qyburn seemed greyer and more shrunken in his old maester robes, tucking his hands into the long sleeves. _You would be heartbroken at your prize patron’s demise, _Euron thought. “She still clings to life, bless the old and new gods.” _You know he’s shaken if he even mentions the gods. _“At the… beginning, she lost a large amount of blood, stopped breathing at one point, but we were able to revive her. She has not regained consciousness since. There is a good chance of her doing so, but when that will happen, I am not sure.”

Euron noticed that Cersei’s belly was considerably smaller now underneath the covers. “The child did not survive?”

The question seemed to surprise the Hand. “What? Oh, no, no, far from it. Come and see.”

The hand led him to the side of the room facing a large stained-glass window, now opened just a small amount to let the fresh breezes from Blackwater Bay drift over a wooden crib. Two young, well-rounded girls – _wet nurses, most likely – _sat in watch over its occupant. “He’s faring a bit better than his mother at the moment,” Qyburn commented.

The rounded pink baby was already dressed in a tiny nightshirt and covered with several baby quilts as he lay snuggled on his side. A golden tuft of hair dusted the top of his head. Genuinely curious – and casually intrigued by the curvaceous forms of his new minders – Euron leaned over to get a slightly closer look. Seeming to sense the presence of the new intruder into his new world, the babe pried open one sleepy emerald eye, took in the sight of the King of Rock and Salt, judged him to be of little interest, and immediately went back to his slumber.

Euron chuckled in surprise. “You’ve got the right idea, little one.” With his most charming grin to the boy’s wet nurses, he turned back to Qyburn. “He favors his mother, obviously. Lucky for him – the girls won’t keep their eyes off him when he comes of age.”

“Do you have an idea of the baby’s name, My Lord?” Qyburn said. “It seems like now would be appropriate…”

_“You _have little idea of how women think, My Hand, and perhaps _that _was why the maester’s life seemed good to you,” Euron replied, laughing and shaking his head. “I’m a right prick at times for sure, but even I know better than to name a mother’s babe without her having any say-so in the matter.”

Qyburn still appeared to be unassured. “But what will we call…?”

“He is the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, My Hand,” Euron said, casually laying his hand on the man’s shoulder and giving it a friendly squeeze. “That will do him well enough for a name until his mother wakes.”

Qyburn bowed his head. “So it shall be, Lord Euron.”

Euron leaned closer in to Qyburn in a conspiratorial fashion. “I’ll be asking for updates on the Queen’s condition, every midday and sunset,” he whispered. “Have them sent to my quartermaster on _The Silence, _Tarran. He will get them to me later if I am not immediately available.”

“It will be done, My Lord.”

Euron backed away from Qyburn. “Ser Boros, can you come here for a moment?”

The pudgy, red-faced knight trundled into the room and stood before him. “Lord Euron?”

“Ser, I thank you and your brothers in the Queensguard for your watch over Her Grace,” he replied. “We will have additional gold cloaks here in the holdfast to assist your efforts. You and the other Queensguard must make sure no one enters this room without the permission of either the Hand or myself.”

“It will be done, my lord,” Boros said.

Euron turned back to Qyburn to shake his hand. “Thank you again for all you have done for Her Grace. Regretfully, I must return to my men and my duties. I’ll talk with you soon.”

“My Lord,” everyone else said as he walked out of the room.

Rodrik Blacktyde followed Euron down the hall as he made his way out of the holdfast. A black-haired, sharp-faced man of five and twenty, he’d sailed with Euron for the past ten years and was able to judge his moods with some skill. As a result, he knew well not to say a word to him whenever he stared straight ahead as he stomped forward in his leather boots equipped with rounded steel toe sections, long black leather duster trailing behind him.

It was not until they had exited the walls of Maegor’s Holdfast that Euron finally turned to his captain. “Send out the messages to everyone we talked about.”

“When?” Rodrik said, referring to the meeting the messages discussed.

“Tonight, my outer cabin in _The Silence. _Everyone needs to be there. Get on it,” The King of Rock and Salt directed. With that, and with an eye peeled for any eavesdroppers, Euron stalked away to the Red Keep’s main gate and toward the port.

#

He let the wintry sea breeze cool him off as he lay in bed with the woman.

Euron sipped at a bottle of black rum as the girl nuzzled up against his left side, neither dressed except for the quilts over their bodies. He stared at her, some Kingslander girl of nine and ten, the daughter of fishing folk who had come to hang around the Ironborn… Daisy, he thought her name was. Her nose reminded him of a potato and her mouth seemed too wide and full for his tastes, but her body was firm and she seemed willing to let him spend in any of her orifices that he wished. _Wonder what her upbringing was like, _he thought to himself. He’d keep her in port, but if all went well, she might even be a possible salt wife.

He watched the setting sun through the windows in his cabin. The captain’s cabin in _The Silence _was two rooms. The smaller room nearest to the stern had his bed, personal locker, and other valuables inside. The outer room he used as a personal workspace or a meeting room to talk with his subordinates. It was a simple and efficient separation of personal and work spaces. “Daisy?” he said cautiously.

“Yes, Your Grace?”

_Thank the Drowned God I remembered right, _he thought. “There’ll be some men I’m meeting with in the next room. Don’t bother getting up – we won’t be in here and we’ll do our business as quietly as possible.”

“You want me to wait up for you?” she asked with a wide, unaffected grin.

“I don’t think we’ll be long,” Euron said as he threw his legs over his new bed and started to pull on his leather trousers. “However, with these things you really can’t tell. Don’t worry if you fall asleep – we can catch up later,” he leered at her. “You can have the rest of the bottle if you want.”

“Obliged, King Euron,” she said, taking a good swallow. “And Your Grace? Don’t feel like you have to have me awake to have some fun.” As she sat up, she let the quilt fall to her lap, exposing her fine, pear-shaped bosoms.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Euron laughed as he pulled on his tunic and stared at her. _There was some_ _man that twisted this girl around. Suits _me_ fine, though._ As he was now at forty namedays, his taste in unskilled girls had sharply declined. He preferred women who had some idea of what they wanted, no matter how twisted it was.

#

Rodrik poked his head through the door of Euron’s meeting room. “My King? They’re all here.”

Euron stood at the head of his table, nodding. “Show them in. Have those girls bring us drinks, will you?”

“Of course, Sire,” he said.

He ducked out of the doorway before it opened fully. Entering the room was Harry Strickland, Rozaz Hizir, Lord Willam Trant, and Lord Daeron Vaith.

In addition, Rodrik escorted in two other men to join the group. Lord Roland Crakehall was a broad-shouldered man with hair a mix of black and iron grey, sporting a leather gabeson sporting the black and white boar of his Westerlands house.

The other man was Volon Maegyr, captain of the Wild Geese Company of Volantis, now the largest of the sellsword groups in King’s Landing except for the Golden Company. He had the fine features of Old Valyria, with dreamy sky-blue eyes and long blond hair he had braided into pigtails. He wore a gilded cuirass over his gold and crimson flowing silk Volantian outfit. A member of the tigers of the Volantian noble families, Maegyr was well connected to those who ruled over the first daughter of the old Valyrian Freehold, and did little that was not approved by them or at least known to them.

As Euron bade them all sit at the table, it was the Volantian sellsword who spoke up first. “King Euron, may I be the first to offer condolences to you for the queen’s sickness, but congratulations on the birth of the Crown Prince,” he said. “I’m sure all of us would join me in wishing the Queen a speedy return to good health.”

“Long live the Queen,” Roland Crakehall called out in his booming voice, and the other visitors responded in kind.

“I appreciate the good wishes,” Euron said as he sat down. “Also, I thank you for coming to my flagship for this meeting. Drinks, anyone?” It was then that a group of girls, scantily dressed in light silk dresses and simple sandals, walked in with trays filled with goblets and jugs of wine and rum.

“It’s an inconvenience having to row out here in the middle of the night, but your man made it seem vitally important,” Lord Trant said, although neither he nor anyone else turned down the drinks. “What’s going on, Your Grace?”

“It is, sadly, the Queen’s condition, and her… _lack_ of action in the past couple weeks that have required this meeting,” Euron replied. He waited until the women had delivered all the drinks and left before continuing. “Perhaps I should give some background.”

“With all due respect, Your Grace, if you would proceed?” Strickland said, raising his wineglass and draining half of it in one gulp.

“Of course,” Euron said, tolerant of a sign of disrespect that would have seen any ordinary Ironborn sailor lose his tongue. “First, there is the Dragon Pretender’s army. I am sure we would have wished all the living, dead, or other beings up North had disposed of each other, but we couldn’t be that lucky. However, as I heard that you had mentioned to the Queen before her illness, Captain Strickland, that with the addition of the Wild Geese and our Westerosi allies, we are at least twice the size of her army, with the Pretender apparently wounded or ill and her dragons not at their fighting best. If there is a better time to attack and rid ourselves of the Dragon problem permanently, I do not see it. Unfortunately, our queen fell ill before she could make that choice.”

Euron took the measure of the room as he fell silent for a moment. _They’re unsure, but I’ve got their attention, _he thought as none looked away or spoke out in protest. “We’re still listening,” Lord Vaith said.

“Secondly, this is where I must raise _my _hand, good lords, and admit underestimating my cockless cunt of a nephew,” he continued. “I never imagined that he’d suddenly remember how to be an Ironborn raider rather than someone with more than a few body parts missing. But here we are, and I admit to being humbled by the experience. I am left sadly without the support of many of my fellow Ironborn nobles, without the ships I would need to dominate the seas around Westeros, and, even more sadly, without the full and unqualified favor of my betrothed.” He slumped back in his chair, hand still in the air, as the lords fixed him with their stares. _Thanks to the Drowned God, but I haven’t put on this sort of performance since I first tricked myself into Cersei’s bed. _“The point being, is this. All of you seek fame, fortune, higher status in the new order of the Seven Kingdoms, but I have even more of a stake in a victory on the battlefield than all of you. And it is on the battlefield we will find our reward, not sitting behind the walls of this city.”

“Your Grace, I do think that we all appreciate your… humility and candor at this time,” Lord Roland finally said, getting up from his chair to pace around, flagon of wine in one hand. “And as a warrior, a soldier, I can relate to your wish to settle matters on a battlefield of our own choice. But did not your betrothed decide that we would best be suited to wait here, behind the safety of King’s Landing’s walls? There is no doubt that they will come to us to try and claim the crown.”

“My dear lord, you slightly misunderstood my beloved’s intentions,” Euron all but purred. “Just before she succumbed to her illness, she was still trying to decide what the right course of action was. Captain Strickland, Captain Hizir, were those not my betrothed’s very words to you?”

“That is what she said,” Hizir replied as the others who’d been at the gathering slowly nodded their heads and Lord Crakehall returned to his seat.

“Precisely,” Euron nodded with only the slightest touch of smugness. “And since she is not able to make decisions on the best course of action right now, it is up to us, as her captains and advisers, to make the best decision for her interests and the interests of the realm.

“I must admit to you, my lords, that at the time she fell ill, the queen was seized with a certain indecisiveness,” Euron continued. “Such is understandable, given the uncertain emotions she suffered due to her concern not only for her safety and the safety of the realm, but her babe as well. She had started to plan for when the Dragon Army came to King’s Landing… but I fear that it is not sound. It involved something that she wished me to keep from your knowledge, but… I am honor-bound to tell you the truth. My lords, if I am to ask you to risk your lives for the protection of the Seven Kingdoms, you need to know what level and what type of risk you face.”

Lord Trant screwed up his face in exasperation as he slapped the table. “What are you going on about?” he huffed.

“All of you noticed the crater on Visenya’s Hill, where the Sept of Baelor once stood?” Euron barked. “That is the result of _wildfire, _lords, wildfire that evaporated it and everyone inside into a puff of green flame and smoke. I hasten to add that I do not _disapprove_ of those actions. Those that died were traitors to the crown and the Seven Kingdoms, and measures had to be taken. I would be the _last _man to be squeamish at the need for spilling blood.

“But that was not all of the wildfire in this city, not by a long arrow shot,” Euron said. His voice was lowered, as if inviting them all into conspiracy. “The Queen, her Hand, and the Alchemists’ Guild have been working in secret to not only make mass quantities of the green terror, but to store caches of the stuff underneath the entire city – enough to level the capital three times over, I overheard the Hand say. The intent is for when the Dragon Army breaches the walls of the city, that they will light off the wildfire and burn the Dragon Bitch and all of her minions.”

“Wait a minute,” Lord Trant said, “what happens to those inside? What happens to the defenders?”

“Well, that is the true drawback, I think,” Euron said. He wanted to make sure that they thought it was killing him to say anything bad about his bride to be. “The Queen is very intelligent and thoughtful, but not skilled at military matters. I believe that she was trying to make such a plan, but fell ill before it could be finished. And unfortunately, the Hand is also intelligent and thoughtful, but also not a military man and, frankly, too deferential to the Queen’s orders. So, with this lack of orders, he is going forward with what she has planned up to this point and hoping to somehow blow up the intruders while not doing the same to the defenders. I could not let you face such a fate unknowingly, my lords, I could not. I value your service and honor too much for that.”

Euron’s words sat on the table as the assembled lords and sellswords debated in their own heads as to whether to digest the meal before them. It was finally Strickland who broke the silence. “I am assuming, Your Grace, that the reason you bring up this lack of planning is that you have an alternative you wish to propose.”

With a deep breath, Euron nodded and rose from his chair to begin his own pacing, hands behind his back. “I do, I do… has anyone in here played at dice? Anyone?” Strickland, Hizir, and Lord Trant eventually nodded or grunted in affirmation. “It is a common distraction for Ironborn at sea, one I indulge in, at times. There is a dice game popular among Ironborn crews known as Skin the Fool. It is known for being particularly cut-throat and full of risk for the players.

“One of the elements of the game is that at any point, a player can claim and make what is called The Last Cast,” Euron said. He stalked toward and faced one wall of the cabin and began shaking one fist back and forth, juggling a pair of invisible dice. “The man claims a single number and makes his cast. If he doesn’t hit the number, he loses everything but the clothes on his back, and must leave the game. If he hits his number, however…” Crouching, he cast the imaginary cubes against the wall and snapped his fingers, grinning in triumph. “…he wins the possessions of all the other players except the clothes on _their _backs and the game is concluded.” He stood up and faced the lords and captains. “I have successfully made two Last Casts in my life. Now I am ready to make a third, although a third with better odds than the first two.”

“You mean to attack,” Hizir said, refilling his mug.

“My beloved was correct in seeing wildfire as the difference between victory and defeat, but she was limited in seeing it as a defensive weapon from how it was used before, in Blackwater Bay,” Euron said. He strolled with confidence back to the table and reached down below his seat, pulling out a large map. “However, it can just as easily be used as an _offensive _weapon. It can be contained in jars and jugs with fuses, loosed from catapults and trebuchtes – which even my longships are equipped with – as well as scorpion bolts. The latter will come in handy in the off chance either of those dragons might be capable of fighting. Queen Cersei wondered how we would breach the walls of Harrenhal; well, we have the tools already at hand, and ready to transport.”

He unrolled the map of Westeros and laid it out in the center of the table. “This will be a combined land and water operation,” Euron proclaimed. “Most of my longships are perfectly capable of river travel – not this fine ship, unfortunately,” he said, huffing in resignation. “Those longships will travel up along the Blackwater Rush while most of you will follow along the northern side of the river. Captain Volon, would your Wild Geese be willing to hitch a ride with my boys?”

The Volantian grinned as he came to stand beside Euron and gaze at the map. “Avoid marching _and _get a chance to put an end to the slave-loving Dragon Bitch?” he said. “I’m in favor of it.”

“Unfortunately, we would not have space for everyone, especially Ser Harry’s elephants,” Euron chuckled. “However, it will be a fairly short march.

“Those by water will come up the Blackwater Fork and into the God’s Eye, using the Isle of Faces to hide ourselves until the critical moment,” Euron continued. “The rest of you, traveling by land, will make your way through the woods just southeast of Harrenhal along the banks of the God’s Eye to hide your movements.

“At the critical point, my ships will split into two groups and make their way around the Isle of Faces,” he continued. “At that moment – I plan for this to take place at night – we will launch our wildfire missiles against the southern wall of Harrenhal and its three gatehouses. The Golden Company and other sellsword groups, as well as the other Westerosi houses, will then advance rapidly toward the castle.

“The left group of ships, carrying the Wild Geese, will make landfall just west of Harrenhal so that the men can begin to encircle the castle, and anchor your line on the lake shore,” the King of Rock and Salt said, visions of wildfire carnage dancing before his eyes. “Captain Strickland and the Golden Company will lead the advance around north of the castle and link up with the Wild Geese. Captain Hizir, the Westerlands, Stormlands, and Dornish troops will follow behind, forming a continuous line anchored by your end on the eastern lake shore.

“After we have successfully breached the southern walls and the gatehouses, the eastern wing of ships will dispatch myself and my Ironborn marines to the south wall so that we may enter Harrenhal,” he said. “Then the ships will concentrate their shots in the center of the castle. The defenders will be trapped between wildfire behind them and invaders in the front. As for the rest of the soldiers, they will either slaughter the defenders as they retreat from the burning castle, or they will enter Harrenhal through the open gates and help my Ironborn finish the business inside.” He spread his arms wide and did a slow turn as he regarded all the lords and captains there. “Complete victory.”

Ser Harry looked down at the map, considering it and, apparently, what he had heard. “A pretty plan, Your Grace, and a pretty story, indeed. But it is one with risk, is it not? There are several things that could go wrong.”

“Oh, of that there is no doubt,” Euron replied. He leaned back in his chair and propped his booted feet onto the table and drained another wineglass. “But then again, so do all Last Casts, even though this one, I wager, has better odds than most.” He reached into his pocket, then started shaking his hand in front of his face. The _click click _the lords and captains heard told them that Euron had a real pair of dice in his hand. “Let us be blunt, my lords. If the Dragon Queen is already at the gates of King’s Landing, that means we have _lost. _We are at the mercy of alchemists, a frankly disturbed Hand – I know what a disturbed mind looks like, trust me – are we simply to hope that these men somehow blow up a city without killing us in the process?” He raised his still shaking hand above his head. “I know not about you, my lords, but if I am to gamble for victory with the consequence of death for failure, _I _wish to make such a gamble, and leave it in no other’s hands but mine. _SEVEN!”_

With a flick of his wrist, he sent the die scattering across the map. When they came to a stop, one dice landed on the number one face up while the other showed six. Euron pumped his fist in exhilarated joy. “I propose the path of true victory, my lords,” he said with all the confidence in the world.

“If we did this, when would we leave?” Lord Trant finally said after an extended silence.

“Two evenings from this one.”

“And the Hand…” Lord Crakehall began.

“…will _not _be told of this plan, to avoid unpleasant arguments over who truly holds command over the Army of the Seven Kingdoms.” Euron used his quiet tones to sooth the Westerlands lord, who he worried might the one of them to dissent. “We will leave in cover of darkness to avoid attention. It is always better to beg for forgiveness after the fact rather than be too scared to act and miss the perfect opportunity. We will say nothing to the Hand, Queensguard, gold cloaks, and those bannermen directly sworn to the Lannisters. _Someone _needs to keep an eye on things in King’s Landing, anyway. Trust me, Lord Roland, winning is the answer to _every_ problem in life, and so it will be in this case. Once we present the Dragon Pretender’s head to the Queen or her Hand, all will be forgiven.”

“What about the wildfire?” Lord Vaith said.

“Already loaded on to my longships,” Euron assured him. “We have half of the stores underneath King’s Landing aboard – well enough to blow up Harrenhal, defend us from any stray dragon with wildfire-tipped scorpion bolts, and leave enough for Cersei’s plan regardless. We only took half to alleviate suspicion from the alchemists and Qyburn’s birds, but the other reason is we took along the most recently crafted batches, but left behind the older ones, those made during the era of King Aerys.”

“That was…” Captain Hizir said.

“…due to something some of the alchemists told me,” Euron explained. “They mentioned that the older wildfire is, the less… _predictable, _consistent, their properties are. Since I’m carrying the stuff on my ships, keeping safe is not a bad idea.”

He got up one more time and came to stand next to the lords on the left-hand side of the table, blue eyes blazing with the fervor of his message. “My lords, I am confident enough in this plan that I would be willing to attempt it with just my men. However, I know we can succeed with all of your help.” He slammed his right hand down onto the table, palm flat. “Who is with me?”

Volon Maegyr was the first man to his feet. “If the Dragon Bitch is not stopped here, I know and my people know that she will scheme against Volantis next,” he proclaimed, walking to Euron’s side. “I am with you.” He placed his hand on top of Euron’s.

Captains Strickland and Hizir were next to their feet, then added their hands to the pile. “Aye,” they both said clearly.

After a moment, Lords Trant and Vaith stood up and added their hands to the pile. “Aye,” they said.

All looked at Lord Crakehall, who alone among them remained seated. After a long silence, he finished his glass of wine and stood up. “I do this for the preservation of the Seven Kingdoms, not my own glory.”

“And yet it will be of benefit to both, indeed,” Euron smiled.

Nodding, Crakehall placed his hand atop the others. “Aye.” After a moment, all stood up.

“My good lords and captains, I will not delay or keep you any further,” Euron said. “All of you have much to prepare in the days to come. I would suggest a good night’s sleep before you begin those preparations.” Snatching the dice from the center of the table, the King of Rock and Salt sauntered over to his chair and sat back down, boots up on the table.

Scattered sayings of “Your Grace,” signified their exit from the cabin. After they left, Captain Rodrik ducked his head back in to find his admiral chuckling to himself, dice in one hand and a wine goblet in the other. “All is well?”

“Better than well, Captain Rodrik, better than well.” He drained the goblet and sat it down. “I always wondered what the attraction was in being a theater actor. Not the best of pay – the female actresses are often just jumped-up whores, to be honest – but I just realized it now. Getting people to believe in what you want them to believe, see what you want them to see… it is a _rush_, surely.” He started to shake the dice again. “Make sure to finish all our preparations by tomorrow night.”

“It will be done, Your Grace,” the captain replied.

“I have not always made the best of decisions since allying myself with Queen Cersei, it is true,” Euron said. “Yet the opportunity to win everything back, to come out ahead, now presents itself.” He tossed the dice onto the table. Euron grinned as they came to rest on the center of the table to show the numbers three and four. “And I have plenty of luck yet to spare for the opportunity.” Euron looked back up at Rodrik. “Let the dice fly.”

“Your Grace,” he responded as he bowed before exiting.

Euron thought to get up and get back to his bed, but sat down for a moment instead. _Might be interesting to see what happens if she is asleep, _he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, this was a quick sprint for me, relatively speaking.
> 
> 1\. Let me know your thoughts on how I captured Euron's personality. I always saw him as a ruthless manipulator, a cult leader able to get people to do crazy things that make sense to them at the time.
> 
> 2\. I think Euron's plan is a big gamble, but I also think there's a logical possibility they could pull off their schemes. I'm interested in getting feedback on that as well.
> 
> 3\. We're headed back to Harrenhal next. In my head originally, I had planned on putting out what is to come next into two big chapters, although we will see whether or not my tendency to dice up chapters into smaller sized bites comes into play.
> 
> If you like what you're reading, comment and tell your friends. 
> 
> Writers, keep writing, and everyone keep safe.


	42. The Maester Lord

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lord of Highgarden has two family reunions and starts to find his place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone. I decided it would good to see how Samwell is doing in this chapter. Hope you enjoy.

42.

**Samwell**

He was hunched over, surrounded by three large stacks of books.

Ser Bonifer had provided ample quarters for him, with a proper desk and such, that he was able to get to business in his room. He’d been at it for the past few days, following the orders of his friend, former comrade in black, and now his king.

The stack of books to the left of him were the volumes that he had absconded with upon his departure from the Citadel in search of information to help in their fight against the Others. Now that battle was concluded, and now that Archmaester Embrose was apparently traveling to Harrenhal, he wanted to make sure that he was able to return the volumes he had… borrowed, no worse for wear.

The stack of books to the right of him were volumes borrowed from the libraries of Winterfell, Riverrun, and now Harrenhal about Valyrian steel. Jon had been curious about the possibility of recreating the material for future weapons. Lord Gendry said he knew of techniques used by his former master to reforge existing Valyrian steel, but not to create it anew. The Others had arrived too soon for any meaningful research, but the royal couple were interested in seeing if the secret of the steel could be found and thus reproduced. It was not a subject of high priority for Jon and Dany, but they were interested if an answer could be found.

The highest priority for his research was represented by the stack of books in the middle of the table, one of which he was thumbing through. These books covered the subject of wildfire. Jon wanted information on its properties, hazards, and how the substance had been used in past years. As he continued to prepare for the prospect of seizing a King’s Landing above massive stores of the material, the king wished to know what he faced and what he could expect.

The passage he was reading detailed the failed efforts of Aegon IV Targaryen to conquer Dorne using wooden machines that were designed to pump out jets of wildfire at enemies, infernal machines that he desperately hoped would be able to replace the dragons of old. The “dragons” weren’t even able to reach Dorne before all seven of the devices had burst into flame due to unstable wildfire, to the eternal embarrassment of the Targaryen monarch.

That had ended in failure, but Samwell was trying to see if there were other ways wildfire had been used in warfare. _Jon always told me that a commander must consider all the ways that his forces may be endangered, _he thought to himself. _This is no different. It would make things much easier if I had some amount of the vile green stuff to study in person… but I must make do with the knowledge of the past…_

“Poppa?” he heard behind him.

Slowly, Samwell turned and got up from his chair. Young Sam stood in the doorway, brown hair slightly unkempt and coat and trousers slightly mud-spattered, but otherwise no worse the wear. “Sam, is that you?” Samwell whispered.

The boy ran up to him and wrapped his arms around his leg, burying his head into his father’s midsection. _Did the boy _grow _in his time away? Maybe an inch… it’s been that long? _“I missed you, Poppa.”

“Missed you too, but glad you’re here,” Samwell said, leaning over to wrap his arms around the boy’s shoulders.

“You were right, the sea trip was loads of fun, Poppa.”

“I’m glad. Sam, where’s Mummy?”

“She was following me here.” The lad waved to his father to lean closer to him. “Mummy has a surprise, but I’ll let her tell you,” he whispered. “It’s really amazing.”

“There you are,” a familiar lilting voice called out. “It’s so I can hardly chase after this one.”

He looked up. His wife stood in the doorway, wearing an old black woolen cloak over her shoulders, which was likely useful in the winter weather that had reached the Riverlands. She was wearing one of the sturdy brown woolen dresses she had made herself, but there was a pronounced roundness in her lower belly that was pulling the dress tighter than normal.

Without a word, Gilly strode to him and wrapped her arms around his neck, pushing her lips against his. “It’s good to see you, Husband,” she said, smiling through unshed tears in her amber eyes. “We missed you.”

“Missed you too,” Samwell said as he put one arm around Gilly and pulled her close while keeping the other wrapped around Young Sam. “I missed you both so much.”

As he pressed Gilly against him, he felt some movement against his hip, something he couldn’t tell what it was… until he looked down and saw that her belly was pressed against it, but her hands were joined around his neck.

He stared at her, filled with emotion both thrilling and daunting all at once. “Is this…?” She silently nodded to him, the corners of her mouth starting to turn upward.

“Ah, glad they found you,” he heard from the hallway. “As big as this place is, easy enough to get lost in.”

Samwell looked up again to see Ser Davos peeking his head through the doorway. “Lord Davos,” he said, nodding to him. “Thank you so much for looking after my family. I am in your debt.”

He gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Oh, aye, they were no trouble at all, Lady Gilly often helped keep an eye on _my _boys, lively lads as they were a couple times,” he said. “They were happy to meet Young Sam, for sure.”

“Regardless, thank you,” Sam said with full sincerity.

“Apologies for leaving right away, but Their Graces wanted to see me when I got in,” Davos said. “Something about a ceremony this evening…?”  
  
  


“Ah, yes,” Samwell said. “There’s a ceremony… actually, there’s _two _ceremonies going on later this evening, but I’d reckon that he would be more interested in the one involving his sister, Arya. Apparently, she’s getting married.”

“Indeed? Well, I’d better not keep him waiting,” Ser Davos said with a short bow to Samwell.

“Of course not. Thank you again, Ser Davos.”

After Davos left, Young Sam looked up at Samwell. “We’re staying here for a bit, aren’t we, Poppa? You’re not going anywhere soon?”

“No, boy, no,” he said, patting him on the head. “We’re staying here for a while.”

The boy turned to Gilly, hopping up and down in a frenzy. “Mum, can I go find Hoster Tully? He said he was going to explore around the castle for a while. He said his momma told him all about it on the road here.”

“Hoster Tully?” Samwell said, only able to recall the old Riverlands lord of the same name.

“Lord Edmure’s son,” Gilly said. “They’re about the same age… Sam got to know him well on Dragonstone.”

“Oh, really? Oh, that’s wonderful, then. Glad to hear.”

“You can go with Hoster, but _make sure _you’re back here by lunchtime,” she huffed. “And you’ll have to stay here afterwards, because Momma and Poppa have to attend a wedding this evening, apparently.”

“A wedding at night?” Sam asked.

“Those are the ways of the First Men, the old gods, remember?”

“Oh, yeah. So, I can go, right?” He beamed when Gilly nodded. “Bye Momma, bye Poppa.” He leaned over and kissed his mother’s stomach. “Bye, Brother,” he whispered, then scampered off through the doorway.

Samwell turned back to Gilly. “He’s quite excited, to be honest… you’re not upset about this, are you?” she said with a note of hesitation, her eyes glancing for a moment down to her waist.

“You’re my wife, Gilly, why would I be upset?” he said, hugging her closer. “I mean, maybe it would have been more convenient if this happened after the fighting stopped, but… we’re not guaranteed making it through that, either. So, maybe this is for the best. I’m terribly happy, though.”

She nestled her head onto his chest. “You’re thinking of your father and brother, yes?”

“Aye, I am,” he sighed.

“Sam, I want you to know I’m overjoyed. You treat Sam as your own, but… I wanted to have babies with you as well, and Sam’s _so _excited to be a big brother. I’d hoped that you had gotten me with child before I left Winterfell, but I think it might have happened on the way to there.”

“Fair enough, lass,” he said, reaching down to kiss her forehead. “Fair enough.”

“Supposedly Highgarden is this massive white castle, covered in greenery and flowers,” Gilly said, even though she seemed suspicious of the truth of her words.

“Aye, it is. I went there once as a child – I remember there being this massive briar labyrinth – a maze, that is – around the outer walls. Sam would likely never get tired of _that_.”

“Good, then we’ll at least have plenty of places for babes to grow.”

Samwell lifted her chin with one hand, his pale eyes widening. “How many children are you planning on _having_, Lady Gilly?”

“Not sure, to be honest,” she replied. “We’ll have a few and see what happens, I suppose.”

“I suppose,” he chuckled as he shook his head.

It was then Ser Donton Hasty poked his head through the doorway. “Lord Samwell, are you here…? Oh, hello,” he said, bowing his head.

“Darling, this is Ser Donton, one of the men at arms here,” Samwell said. “Ser Donton, my wife, the Lady Gilly.”  
  


“Ah, yes, My Lady, good to meet you,” he said. “Lord Samwell, we have visitors at the western gate. It appears that our allies from the Reach are here… and your family’s sigil is among those arriving. Ser Bonifer or Their Graces would come, but they are tied up in a meeting right now…”

“No need to explain,” Samwell said. He broke off his embrace of Gilly with another kiss and went to a nearby chair, where Heartsbane hung from its back in a belt and scabbard. Samwell had recovered the blade from the unfortunate Ser Jorah’s corpse the day after the Battle of the Long Night. He began to buckle it around his waist. “I’m supposed to be High Lord of the Reach, now,” he said. “It’s my responsibility to greet them. Father did everything to make me strong – training, bathing me in the blood of an auroch… probably didn’t think he’d need to die to finish the job.”

Gilly grabbed onto his arm to get him to face her. “That’s not true, Sam. He was wrong about you. You’re more of a real man than he ever was, and you’re responsible for that, not him.”

“You’re right – in part,” he said. “I did have real help. There was Jon and all the other brothers who stood up for me, both living and gone. Maester Aemon, Lord Commander Mormont. You,” he said, patting her on the cheek. “Think you could help me with this lot?”

“You’re my husband,” she whispered. “I go where you go.”

“Right, then.”

#

Flanked by his wife and Ser Donton, Samwell walked to the open courtyard in front of Harrenhal’s western gatehouse. By the time they arrived, a long column of riders and wheelhouses were already starting to fill the open space. Samwell stood there, his left thumb tucked into his sword-belt and his right hand resting on top of Heartsbane’s hilt. He was dressed nearly all in black leather and wool, much as he had when he’d served in the Night’s Watch, except for a green cloak with the hunting man, sigil of House Tarly. Ironically, the old woolen cloak Gilly wore had been part of his old Watch clothing.

There were at least two wheelhouses bearing the tower sigil of House Hightower. One of them disembarked a man about his own size but around twenty years his senior, wearing gold vestments and a seven-pointed crystal crown. _The new High Septon, apparently. Guess they needed a new one after Queen Cersei vaporized the old one._ Following behind him was the balding but bright-eyed man much more familiar to him – Archmaester Embrose. His maester chains clinked as he came to stand off to the side with the High Septon, and spared an appraising glance at Samwell. He was surprised he was able to meet his old master’s eyes.

Three men in full knight’s armor, all bearing the tower sigil, dismounted from their horses. One had flowing iron grey hair and a prominent goatee, but had the same amount of vigor as the younger men beside him. Samwell recognized that it had to be Lord Leyton Hightower, head of his house. The rumors told that he had not left the Hightower for at least a decade. _It appears Jon is convincing _everyone _to show up here. _He more easily recognized Sers Baelor and Garth Hightower, Leyton’s eldest sons, by their father’s side. They were then joined from one of the wheelhouses by a stooped older man with only a fringe of orange hair around his head, wearing a purple robe. He was Lord Paxter Redwyn, head of his house on Arbor Island.

Yet another wheelhouse came to a stop, bearing a sigil with a fox’s head surrounded with blue flowers. One man, this one in an elegant blue silk tunic and cloak, stepped out of the carriage. He had a similar bald head as Samwell’s father had, but the man’s face was narrower and he had more prominent ears. Samwell recognized him as Lord Alekyne Florent, head of House Florent, and his uncle. He saw him help both Samwell’s mother and sister from the wheelhouse door.

His mother was dressed as fine as usual, with matching dark green silks along with his sister, but she seemed… _reduced _was the word, more wan and thinner than he’d seen her, and with the slight dusting of grey in the ponytail of her dark hair. His sister seemed only a shade worse for wear than his mother. When his mother’s feet touched the ground, she caught sight of Samwell in the courtyard. Wordlessly, Melessa Florent Tarly hurried toward him, followed by his sister Talla, before any of their fellow visitors could react.

By the time those visitors started to come to Samwell, his mother and sister had thrown themselves into his arms. For a long time, none of them could speak. “It’s good to see you, son,” Lady Melessa said.

“Glad to see you too,” Samwell said, finally holding her at arm’s length. “Mother, I apologize for leaving so soon last time…” he began, thinking of the disastrous visit he, Gilly, and Sam had made to Horn Hill.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” his mother said, reaching up and patting the top of his head. “I know why you left, you were defending yourself, defending your family. There’s nothing to forgive.”

The Reach lords caught up to the family reunion, led by a stern but puzzled Lord Alekyne. “Nephew,” he said as greeting.

“Uncle.”

Lord Alekyne turned to his fellow lords. “My sister’s eldest boy, Samwell Tarly.” He turned back to Samwell, scowling as he looked him up and down. “Your father told me you were with the Watch,” he said. “What happened?”

“To be honest, the Night’s Watch has pretty much served its purpose and there’s a massive hole in the eastern end of the Wall, but much of that’s irrelevant,” Samwell replied, his voice more assured with every word. “What happened is, I did service to the true King and Queen of Westeros, the same ones who ride those dragons you saw as you approached Harrenhal,” he added, as some unnerved bannermen scanned the skies for the scaled creatures return. “So, on _their _orders, I was released from my vows to the Watch.”

“What service do you speak of, la… my lord?” Lord Leyton asked.  
  


“I found information that they used to defeat the Army of the Dead when they threatened to destroy all Westeros,” he shot back. “Ask any of our army that was there.”

“Bloody madness,” Lord Paxter huffed. “You spent too much time staring at snow drifts up North and thinking they were snow monsters, lad.”

“It seems mad, yes, but there’s another bit of proof,” Samwell countered as his mother, sister, and wife began to stare, jaws dropped, at their once timid beloved. “The long winter the maesters claimed was coming? They were right, it was being brought by the magic of the dead, the Others. But Jo… Their Graces, the rest of us, we stopped them and reset things. Archmaester, I believe that you will start seeing signs of spring within a moon, two at the very latest. And from now on, each of our seasons will last roughly three moons.”

“More fantasy from the North, acolyte?” the archmaester said, but his words were not as certain as they were in the Citadel.

“Watch the signs of the weather, and you will see. It will be the same throughout all the following years.” He turned back to his uncle and the other lords. “There was something else that happened. With the destruction of House Tyrell, Their Graces also saw fit to name me Lord of Highgarden and High Lord of the Reach.”

The older lords managed to keep their composure, but Lord Leyton’s knight sons were unable to stifle fits of laughter. “Lord of Highgarden? High Lord of the Reach?” Ser Baelor choked out. “Now you’re just taking the piss.”

“Lord _Ham_ being named a _high_ lord,” Garth said, shaking his head as he bent over to catch his breath. “Someone who was allergic to swords as a boy…”

“Enough, lads,” growled Lord Leyton. He got closer to Samwell and glanced at Heartsbane on his belt. “You share your father’s name and apparently you have his sword, but I doubt that you suddenly became a mighty warrior in the North.”

_Years ago, I would have been terrified by their words, their laughter, _Samwell thought. _Things have changed. You were wrong, Father. I’m so sorry you never saw it._

Sam’s voice was the icy black cold and serenity of a Northern stream when he spoke again. “I faced many dark things up North, Beyond the Wall, things that would have caused your balls and my father’s balls to retreat up into their bodies.” He rested both of his hands on the hilt of Heartsbane. “I learned to be a soldier there, but I am not a great soldier. I’m sure my father could have beaten me in a melee up until the day he died. Lord Leyton, I grew up watching your sons fight in tournaments in the Reach, and I’m sure they could beat me now. So, it’s a good thing that soldering isn’t the only thing that makes a man.

He raised the level of his voice just enough so that it carried out to the Reach bannermen now milling around that section of the courtyard. “A leader needs many more skills than just soldering. They need intelligence, a wealth of knowledge. I always had plenty of it, even my father admitted it, even if he didn’t think it useful. They need to know how to make good decisions, wisdom. I didn’t have that as much in my youth, but I learned that after I started serving in the Watch. You also need a sense of duty to those you serve. Those of you who served House Tyrell, I give you my sympathies and prayers for the souls of those lost. Whatever is to be said of that house, I knew they cared for and looked after their people. I wish to be that type of leader for you all.”

His words echoed over a now quiet courtyard, the Reach lords and bannermen now staring at Samwell. Finally, Lord Alekyne spoke up. “Nephew, it just seems so crazy…”

He fell silent under the withering glare of his sister, who linked her arm with her son’s. “Lord Alekyne, I must ask you,” she said, her voice like glass being ground to powder, “Who do you see living before you? Do you see my husband, or my eldest son?”

It took a moment for his uncle to find his voice. “Your son, my lady.”

“_Correct_,” she growled. “My husband sent Samwell to the Wall because he wanted him out of his sight. He surely hoped he would freeze to death in some icy barracks on the Wall, or torn to pieces by wildl…” She stopped, catching the eye of Gilly. “…Freefolk raiders in some unnamed forest in the Lands of Always Winter, while _he _planned to gallivant around the Reach, building up his own little empire. And now my husband is ashes, while my son stands before you Lord of Highgarden. Tell me, Brother, who was the stronger man in the end?” Not waiting for an answer, she turned to face Samwell. “You are the lord of my house, and High Lord of the Reach.”

Lady Melessa dropped to one knee and bowed her head before her own son, and her daughter soon did the same. It took an entire minute, but by the end of it, all the nobles and bannermen had bent the knee to the former Watch recruit.

“Tha… all right, you can get up,” Samwell said, waving for them to stand. As all of them got to their feet, he pointed to the knight to his left. “Ser Donton will take most of you to Maester Tothmure. They will arrange guest quarters for all of you. There will be some… festivities this evening at Hunter’s Hall, and all of you are invited to attend.” He then pointed to Gilly. “You should know my wife, Lady Gilly Tarly. She is Lady of Highgarden, and the mother of my children. I would expect you to show her the respect you have shown me.”

“If you would, my lords and ladies, follow me, and we’ll make sure you are settled in… Your Holiness, such a pleasure,” Ser Donton said, clearly starstruck at the presence of the High Septon.

“Nephew, Sister, Niece,” Lord Alekyne nodded as he joined the group headed to the great keep’s guest quarters.

Samwell felt his mother take him by each cheek and place a kiss on his forehead. “That… that was incredible, Sam. I am so proud of you.”

“Hello, Mother,” Melessa heard from over her shoulder.

Melessa shuffled to her side. “Gilly, my girl, wonderful to see you again…” Her eyes were drawn to Gilly’s midsection. “Oh, darling… there is another?” she said, placing a hand there.

Gilly covered it with her own. “Yes, my lady. Another boy, I think. Your other grandson is exploring this castle, I believe…”

Melessa cut her off with a squeezing hug around the younger girl’s shoulders. “Oh, goodness, girl, you bring such good news.”

“Congratulations, Lady…” Talla began, but Gilly drew her into the group embrace.

“Just Gilly, Sister. And thank you. Mother,” she said, managing to pry herself from her arms, “I had some success hunting this morning, got plenty of rabbit. Would you be interested in some rabbit stew for lunch today?”

“Why… that would be lovely, dear, simply lovely,” Melessa said. “Thank you, dear.”

Before they began to walk away, Archmaester Embrose got his attention. “You seem to have done well for yourself, acolyte,” he said with only the slightest hint of sarcasm. “Perhaps they will call you the Maester Lord when the histories are written.”

“To be honest, that sounds better than Lord Ham or Mad Lord Samwell,” he replied. “Archmaester? I’ve… come into possession of some books that are apparently from the Citadel’s collection. I would wish to return them to you at your convenience.”

“At _your _convenience, My Lord, your convenience,” the archmaester said. “We’ll talk again.”

“Of course, Archmaester,” Samwell said, bowing to his departing form. “Well, let’s go then,” he whispered to the members of House Tarly as they left the courtyard.

#

As the Tarlys approached the great keep, Samwell asked Gilly, “Do you have any idea where Sam is?”

“From what I’ve seen of him, he could be running anywhere… wait a minute,” Gilly said, hitching up her skirts and hustling after a young boy who was just about to duck down an alley. “Hoster? Hoster Tully, do you know where my boy is?”

“I… I couldn’t say, my lady…” he began, staring down at the ground.

Standing over him, hands on her hips, she gave such a burning glare that Samwell thought the boy’s head would catch fire. “_Hoster_, have you seen him?” Gilly insisted, the shy and non-demonstrative girl Samwell usually knew transforming into a no-nonsense Freefolk mother before his eyes.

Hoster finally tilted his head up, blue eyes darting left and right. “Come with me, my lady.”

“Wait here, we’ll be right back,” Samwell said to Melessa and Tally before he followed Hoster and Gilly down an alleyway between two buildings.

The alleyway emptied into another one, a narrow area right up against the curtain wall of Harrenhal. Just as Gilly and Samwell peeked around the corner, they saw Samwell standing with a boy in mud-spattered clothes with dust-colored hair, maybe three or four name days older than their son. The older boy had what appeared to be a clay jar in one hand and was having Samwell light a rag sticking out of the top with a nearby torch. “Ready?” the boy said, and Samwell nodded. “One, two, three!”

The boy hurled the clay jar against the curtain wall, where it shattered. A black flaming substance splattered over the wall and stuck there as both boys let out a cheer.

“_OI!” _Samwell called out in a training ground voice that almost sounded like Ser Allister Thorne’s so many years ago at Castle Black. “What’s all this about then?”

The boy and Samwell turned to face them, the former jumping out of fright and Sam’s eyes widening and a rigid grin of embarrassment. “Mum? Da?”

Gilly stalked over to the boys as Samwell followed. “You lads smart enough to start a fire, but you know how to put one out?” she growled.

“Just a second, M’Lady,” the boy said, grabbing a wooden bucket with a rope handle on it that was filled with sand. He rushed over to the wall and tossed the sand onto the burning section, smothering the flames.

As Gilly stood over Sam and whispered a piece of her mind in the ear she had well in grasp, Samwell walked over to the boy, who was standing at attention like some raw recruit for the Watch. “Excuse me, Lord… Tully?” he squeaked.

“Lord Tarly. Who might you be?”

“Baren, M’Lord,” he said, bowing his head. “Me mum works in the buttery here, and my da works as a roofer, building and repairing the roofs here.”

Samwell stared at the wall that had just been in flame. “How’d you manage that?”

Baren blinked rapidly and opened his mouth in surprise, but nothing came out at first. “Ah… well, M’Lord, it was pretty simple. I pinched just a little of the pitch Da and his workers use for the roofs and put it in the jar. You use the fuse to set the pitch on fire when it shatters against whatever you throw it at. It’s a bit of entertainment, really…” his voice trailing off.

Samwell kept looking intently at the wall and at the shards of pottery at the base of the wall. He finally turned to face Sam and Hoster, who was standing next to Sam and Gilly. “All right, lads, you help this boy clean all this up as best you can. Sam, your grandmother and aunt are here, so they’re joining us for lunch. Hoster, you should get back with your mother; I’m sure she’s looking for you.

He turned back to Baren. “Once you and the boys get this sorted, you be on your way. Try not to burn down the castle again, right? There may be some men that might come here and attack us, and I want to make sure we have walls between us and them if it happens, understood?”

A relieved Baren nodded rapidly. “Yes, M’Lord,” he said, starting to gather the clay shards in his bucket as Sam and Hoster scrambled over to help him.

“I’ll have to tell Jon about this,” Samwell said as he came back to Gilly.

“What, tell the king about some boys playing a prank in an alley?” she said in disbelief.

“Not that. Cersei Lannister’s forces, they have a large store of wildfire at King’s Landing. We were worried about them setting it off there, but… I think I just realized how they could use it here, against us.” He kissed Gilly on the forehead. “Straighten out Sam?”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Gilly said. “Boy’s just curious about things, is all. He means no harm.”

“I remember you saying to me once that you can learn just as much from real life as from books,” Samwell said as they embraced. “I think this was some proof of that.”

“Aye, of course I’m right,” she said, smiling. “That’s how marriages work, see? You admit _I’m _right in the end.”

“Aye.”

#

“So, that is what you heard?” his mother said.

They were in a small dining hall next to their guest quarters. Sam was deep in conversation with Talla at the far other end of the table while Samwell and his mother sat at the other end. Gilly was getting a second helping of her rabbit stew for Sam and Tally.

He looked at her and considered her words. She had just told him what she had heard about the deaths of his father Randyll and brother Dickon, put to death by dragonfire by the queen for refusing to bend the knee. “Yes, that is the story I heard as well. The queen told me it herself.” Melessa slowly nodded, eyes closed and hands folded on the table before her bowl as if absorbing her words.

Samwell could barely get his words out. “It was the queen, not Jon. It was tough for me to take… I still don’t know exactly how I feel about her… Jon is a good man, he is someone I would follow anywhere…”

His mother’s eyes flew open. “It was your father’s vanity and selfishness that killed him, not your queen.”

“I.. what?”

“Your father thought he was going to be the Lord of the Reach when he was done with his schemes,” she said. “Cersei Lannister barely had any claim to the throne, but he decided to back her to get the power he’d always wanted. And after a lifetime of being on the winning side, he finally lost. He didn’t want to live with losing, so he decided to take the ‘honorable’ way out. Ass,” she snorted. “He killed your brother, too. If he wasn’t selfish, he would have let Dickon return home. But no, he had to make sure Dickon proved he was a true man, even if it killed him. Selfish, selfish man.”

His mother’s words weighed heavy on him. She had always tried her best to protect him, even though she supported Father and obeyed her commands. “It would be a tough choice to make, if one was faced with it…”

“Not for you,” Melessa said, shaking his head. “You wouldn’t have made that choice. I know you too well, Samwell Tarly. You would have chosen to live. You would have lived so you could look after your family and do whatever good that you could do. But your father abandoned us to our fates, and the old gods and the new.” She reached over and took his hands in hers. “You will now lead this family, Samwell. Lord of Highgarden and Horn Hill, I suppose.”

He shook his head. “_You _are the rightful Lady of Horn Hill, Mother,” he said. “Father took that inheritance from me… I’d rather have Tally inherit Horn Hill from you, give her something of value.”

“Before he left to fight the Tyrells, he’d talked about marrying Talla to a son of House Fossoway of New Barrel, but she didn’t seem enthused about the idea.”

“Never mind,” Samwell said. “She can wait and pick out who she’d like to marry if she’s interested in that. No need for her to be in some political marriage.”

“Thank you, Sam,” she said.

Gilly came over to their table. “How’s the stew, Mother?”

“Wonderful, Gilly, wonderful. I’m not sure how it is with the Freefolk, but you would normally call your husband’s mother your goodmother,” Melessa said.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Gilly said as she sat down. “There’s so much about this ladyship thing I have no idea about. Samwell’s tried to teach me, but… you know.”

She patted Gilly on the arm. “Never mind that; Tally and I can sort you out on those things. I think that I have gone through much in recent years, but I have a feeling you went through worse things Beyond the Wall, yes?”

Gilly covered Melessa’s hand with her own. “I did at that, Goodmother.”

“I’m happy that he has you,” she said. “I could tell from when I first met you that you were strong-minded, independent, a woman who can get things done. Being one of the Freefolk, your ways, I imagine that is how you would have to be. Samwell needs someone like you, someone to steady him.”

“Sam is a good man, My Lady,” Gilly said. “He’s the first man I ever met who could be gentle as well as strong, and always caring for me, for Young Sam. I’m happy he’s my husband… and I’m glad to be part of your family.”

The older woman leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead. “I’m happy you are as well. I’m glad to be here for you and your babes. Now that I think of it, I could use another helping of that stew. You’ll have to share the recipe with me sometime.”

“Of course,” Gilly said as she got up and took her goodmother’s bowl.

_The old gods might be with me, _he thought as he watched his wife get more stew and his son giggling in conversation with Talla. _I hope we can get Cersei sorted out so I can get my family back home and start to figure out how to be a proper lord._

#

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glad to be back. A few items as we go on:
> 
> 1\. As you noticed, the title of the story is now simply Dreams of Spring. I got rid of the subtitle because I started to think it was honestly a bit redundant and didn't add much to things. I might create a different subtitle later, but basically this story is always going to be known as Dreams of Spring.  
2\. Although you won't notice it in this chapter, I have decided to have Jon's original Targaryen name to be Jaehaerys Targaryen instead of Aegon like the show. This is of course regardless of the 2D's writing and whatever GRRM decides in the end. My reasoning:  
\- Obviously, Jon has a half-brother already named Aegon.  
\- Especially in this retconned version of the story (Lyanna was going to be a second wife to Rhaegar alongside Elia, not replacing Elia), Lyanna would not want to do anything to disrespect Elia and her children by Rhaegar. She would have chosen a different name.  
\- Even with the caveat that his half-brother Aegon is dead by the time Jon is born, there is almost no chance Lyanna would know that for sure, being kept in the Tower of Joy and not in the best of health due to her circumstances.  
\- I could easily see Lyanna wanting to name her firstborn after the most enlightened ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, Jon's own ancestor. Also, it would make sense for Ned Stark to give his son a name (Jon) that would share the same first letter as his true name.
> 
> So, I am editing this story to give Jon the new Targ name. Let me know if I missed an Aegon reference or whatever in one of the chapters.
> 
> 3\. We're staying at Harrenhal for the next few chapters at least. Next chapter we will see one wedding and a wedding party, and some accompanying fluff both expected and unexpected.
> 
> Everyone keep safe and happy this Fourth.


	43. The Isle of Faces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Army of the High Kingdom continues to settle in Harrenhal, both its godswood and the Isle of Faces plays host to surprise events.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glad to be back with the latest chapter. It's a bit of a long one, and Arya-centric to be honest, but I hope you enjoy it. Arya invents the bachelorette party for Westeros, there's some unexpected character interactions, one wedding ceremony, one wedding feast, and fluff without and fluff definitely with smut. Plus, a new character makes a POV debut. Enjoy.

43.

**Arya**

_If I can manage to make the social events with the Stormlands women like this, I might be able to tolerate them._

Arya raised her ale mug as her fellow ladies of the North did the same. “To success in life, and not taking any shit from men.”

_“Success,” _the ladies called out in response, clinking mugs.

Arya and her companions were huddled around a table in the Mossy Lakeside, a winesink in Harrentown, the small lakeside town just outside the western walls of Harrenhal that was just starting to rebuild from some damage caused during The War of the Five Kings. The Mossy Lakeside was built low to the ground, with a large open porch, extending out past the lake shore with stilts, that boasted a fine view of the lake.

That was about the only elegant detail of the entire establishment. The wooden bar than ran along the back of the place looked like someone had taken a hammer to most of it, and hadn’t been cleaned since the days of Jaehaerys II Targareyn at the least. The hearth at the left of the place appeared to have been assembled by a group of children using odd rocks and boulders placed together randomly, and a door right next to it led to a darkened cellar filled with cubbyholes and alcoves where a man could be left alone or be joined by female companionship. The tables were old planks nailed to the top of emptied wine casks filled with sawdust. Sawdust also covered the battered wooden-planked floors, the better to sop up spilled wine, vomit, or, during particularly feisty nights, blood. The ale and wine available were below average in taste and quality but well above average in alcoholic potency, and the black rum on sale was strong enough to peel paint. The less said about the bread and pies for sale, the better. Except for her party, the entire clientele of the place looked to be composed of derelicts and bandits.

Arya was having a fantastic time.

She glanced around the table at the ladies who had joined her for “lunch” which had now lasted somewhere around three hours. All were dressed in dark or drab-colored wool dresses and cloaks, minus any sigils or signs of their status as highborns specifically not to attract attention. To Arya’s left, at the place of honor at the head of the table, was Crown Princess Sansa Stark, struggling mightily not to show any signs of discomfort at her surroundings. _She’s keeping up with us well enough with the drink, _Arya thought.

The other ladies seemed more comfortable in the Riverlands winesink. Across from Arya was the other young woman marrying that evening, Lady Alys Karstark, much more boisterous and joking than she had ever been at court or during a council of war. It was most likely the half-dozen mugs of ale had helped with that. To her left was Lady Lyanna, now upright but with her right arm still mending in a sling; however, four goblets of wine had eased the lingering pains of the smallest of the women at the table. The newly named Munda Umber was alternating between blank stares and intense drinking, flanked by Arya and an unguarded, relaxed Meera Reed.

“I need to ask, Arya,” Alys said after they downed their toasts, “are you sure about this? I don’t want to take attention from you…”

“Gods’ sake, Alys, are you kidding? It’s actually going to take the pressure off me, to be honest.” She made a show of calling the barmaid over to top off their drinks. “Instead of everyone trying to look for me, I’ll be away from it all. If I’m going through with getting married, I can at least do it on my terms.”

“I’m just surprised you didn’t want to have the ceremony in Harrenhal’s godswood,” Sansa said. “You wouldn’t have had to have it at the same time as Alys…”

“Remember I told you how I was kept _captive _there for how many months?” Arya snorted, taking another gulp. “That would have been like suggesting you and your Northern knight get married in the Sept of Baelor.”

“She ‘as a point there,” Lyanna chimed in, her Northern accent getting thicker as the wine flowed.

“I didn’t even want to sleep in Harrenhal, to be honest, so that’s why I found a place at the inn just across the road,” Arya huffed. Left unsaid was the fact that Gendry had joined her at the inn. “No sense in staying in the castle until all these Stormlanders show up…”

“And that’s how you found out about this place,” Meera drawled.

“This was the kind of place I always found myself in during my travels,” Arya said. “If there’s not one near Storm’s End, I need to see if they would open one nearby.” She looked around at all the ladies. “Gods, I’m going to miss the North,” she said. “I would have been happy with court life in Winterfell if I knew there were ladies around like all of you. Not so fucking stuck up.”

“Awww,” nearly everyone around the table echoed, with consoling touches from Meera and Sansa.

“Well, you can always visit _my _court whenever you wish, dear sister,” Sansa said. “And I l know you well. If you will not remain in the North, you will bring the North with you to the Stormlands, and make new friends there.” She raised her wine goblet high. “To bringing the North to the Stormlands.”

“The North,” chorused the ladies, as they drank their toast.

Arya leaned over and touched her forehead to Sansa’s arm before getting back to her previous topic. “Anyway, I’m happy with my choice of wedding locations, and I’m sorry it might not be as convenient…”

“That’s not a problem,” Sansa said, laying her hand on Arya’s forearm. “I’ll go wherever you want to go.”

“Thanks.” She turned to Alys. “So, are you OK with your betrothal?” The slight red-headed girl nodded to her. “I was wondering, what are you going to call yourself? Are you going to be part of his house, or…”

“We have it all figured out,” Alys said. “Our house is to be House Karstark of the Thenns. I am to be Lady Karstark of the Thenns, Lady of Karhold, and he is to be Sigorn Karstark of the Thenns, Magnar of the Thenns and Karhold.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that. The sigil of the Thenns is a bronze sun, and my sigil is a black sun. We shall combine them easily enough, just as our names.”

“Fair enough,” Arya said.

“I ‘ave to ask,” Lyanna said, surprisingly shy around the older ladies, “Are you happy with this marriage? Is he who you wanted as a husband?”

“I would have been married to a dimwitted aging cousin if my late uncle had anything to do with it,” Alys said, shaking her head. “It seems like all of my life my family was plotting my fate, and then I was alone and left to my own fate. Now _I_ get to choose. Sigorn… he is still strange to me, but he is a good man, a capable man. Someone who could be the man I need to keep these unruly bannermen in shape, and his people need shelter from the storms of this world. And, he is kind to me. I could have a far worse marriage.” She locked eyes with Arya. “What about you, My Lady?”

Arya was frozen in place despite the amount of ale she’d consumed, and dozens of false answers flew around in her head. In the end, however, only the truthful one passed across her lips. “He’s my best friend,” she said, with only the tiniest quiver in her voice. “I’m marrying my best friend.”

It was Meera who now raised her glass. “To best friends,” she said.

“Best friends,” the ladies chorused, and then another drink.

“I wanted to ask you, Lady Alys, if there was anything else, we could help you with as you prepare for your wedding,” Sansa said. “We’d be happy to help you with anything.”

“Well, I…” Alys covered her face with her hands with her long, skinny fingers, much like her frame. “I… I think some of you have… _been_ with men. Some of you are married. What… what do men like… from women? What do women like from men?” She was barely able to choke out the question.

Arya, Sansa, and Meera exchanged glances. Before any of them could utter a word, Munda leaned forward, apparently eager to help. “If a man licks your cunt, it feels really good. They appreciate you putting their cock in your mouth, too.”

Alys covered her mouth with her hands. Lyanna couldn’t speak, eyes bugging out and deciding to down the entire contents of her wine goblet instead. The other three ladies managed to keep quiet for a few seconds, stealing glances at each other, before bursting into laughter that might have been heard in Harrenhal. Arya and Meera embraced Munda, whispering reassurances that nothing was wrong with what she said. “That’s… pretty much correct,” Arya choked out.

“Munda… I haven’t had a chance to talk with you, to see if everything is all right with you,” Sansa said. “How are things?”

Munda seemed at a loss for words. If Arya was reluctant to claim her birthright as a highborn lady, Munda seemed almost like a sailor hit over the head and forced into service on a sailing ship. “There’s so much I don’t know about how to act, or even if I want to act that way… I’m just lost.”

“It’s all right,” Sansa said, reaching over and patting Munda’s hand. “We’re here to help you out. How has Ned been…?”

“Oh, he’s the sweetest boy there is, mind,” Munda said, ice-blue eyes widening and grin spreading from ear to ear. “Ever so appreciative of anything you do for him. My poppa seems intent on taking him out for every wild adventure, I think, but he’s probably curious as to what type of lad stole his daughter…”

“We’re going to be here for you, and for each other,” Arya said. “We don’t want you to be alone. I don’t want _any_ of you to be alone. We’re our own sisterhood.”

Meera’s eyes met hers, her apparent future goodsister the first to react. “To sisterhood,” she said.

“To sisterhood,” the ladies around the table responded.

#

**Gendry**

_There were twenty forges in Harrenhal, and I insisted on the smallest._

The smithy at Harrenhal was a massive structure, as was most structures at the castle. Shaped like a tunnel, with stone water troughs and a high roof, the twenty-forge smithy would have been the envy of any castle in Westeros.

Despite this, however, Gendry insisted that he did not want to interfere with the regular work of the forges at the great castle. He picked the most modest of forges to serve as his work station, hammering at his own projects and ideas. The other smiths had given him room to work, heard about how he was apparently the bastard son of a former king. They called him the Smith Lord in jest, but after a couple weeks of work, even the master smiths there had to admit the bastard lord knew his business. In Gendry’s mind, there were far worse names for himself than Smith Lord. He also resolved that he would rather build a smithy in his own quarters in Storm’s End rather than steal work from another smith.

“Hello, smith,” a voice called out behind him. “My commission done yet?”

Gendry turned around to see the weary but determined face of Ser Jaime Lannister. “Actually, it is,” he said, laying his hammer and tongs next to the forge. “You ready for it?”

The Westerlands knight nodded as he began to undo the straps keeping his golden hand on his right arm. “Let me see it.”

“All right.” Gendry reached behind him and presented his latest creation to the knight. “Here it is.”

Jaime stared at the contraption. Rather than the open hand that his previous one of gold had been, this one was curled into a fist. And the material… “You chose bronze for this?” he asked.

“Harder than gold, but lighter than both that and iron,” Gendry said. “It made sense to me to have something light that you wouldn’t tire yourself out lugging around all day. I could manage an iron hand…”

“Never mind that, show me how it works,” Jaime said.

Gendry leaned over and pointed out the particulars of the device. “Okay, move that here… yes, that’s it.” The new bronze hand creaked open, allowing Jaime to use it to grasp a hammer on one of the smith’s tables and lift it into the air. “The key to it are the springs keeping the hand shut,” Gendry said. “Those I did make iron, and they should be durable. I included a few replacement ones in case the one there wears out. It’s not a normal hand…”

“But it’s far more useful than that gold monstrosity that I’ve been carting around for the past few years,” Jaime huffed as he nodded. “Thank you, your artistry is impressive.” He took another look at Gendry and shook his head. “Something wrong, Ser Jaime?” Gendry asked.

“Nothing you did, but…” the Lannister knight shook his head in exasperation. “You look so much like the oaf, but you don’t act like him at all.”

“My father?” Gendry said, and Jaime nodded in response. “What can you tell me of what he was like?” he continued. “You served him longer than anyone else, longer than the Mad King… or your sons.”

“Aye,” Jaime laughed, rubbing his chin with his good hand. “In the end, he was an overgrown boy,” he pronounced. “He wanted to do good, but barely knew how. The only things he truly cared about were fucking, fighting, drinking, and hunting, in that order. He could barely be bothered with ruling or any niceties of court or diplomacy. In a perfect world, he should have been the second son and Stannis the eldest. Robert would have been overjoyed to join some sellsword company somewhere in Essos and fight and fuck his life away, and Stannis would have been a far better replacement for the Mad King than his brother was – hard-hearted and dour, true, but he had a sounder mind for ruling and was just as good a fighter as his brother ever was.”

Gendry snorted at that last bit as he tossed his hammer into a pile of his tools. “He almost had me killed and did sacrifice his daughter, my cousin, to the Lord of Light to try and become king.”

“Aye, true, but even with that, he’d have _still _been a better ruler than Robert, my sister, my sons, and the Mad King,” he laughed.

“I’m glad we’re getting Jon and Daenerys, myself. Anyway, what about me?” Gendry said. “Am I like him, or something else?” He didn’t even know if he wanted to know the answer, but he figured he should find out. Despite it all, the man was his father, even if they had never met.

Jaime walked up to him, looking him up and down. “You have his look, of course, but perhaps a bit of his brother Renly’s visage as well. I think you might have his temper, but… you seem much humbler, less cocky, than he ever was.”

“Growing up in a place called Flea Bottom where a bowl of brown was a good meal for you tends to make men like that,” Gendry grunted.

“You might have been lucky not to have Robert raise you. Gods know Cersei wouldn’t have accepted you as a stepson. Sometimes I wonder if it would have been better for me if I was not raised by my _own_ father…”

“It would have been best if we had fathers worthy of the name,” Gendry cut in, scowling. “I wasn’t that lucky. Maybe you weren’t, either.”

Jaime sighed at that. “No, perhaps we weren’t. Sometimes men need to fashion their own families out of what they can find. Not the easiest of things to do, in truth. I didn’t get it right for a long time.”

He stared at a massive war hammer leaning up against the wall near the forge. Its head was about the size of a man’s, with a flattened but serrated face on one side and a pointed spike on the other. The shaft of the hammer was ironwood reinforced with iron bracings. “Honestly, I think you’re a touch bigger than he was now. _He_ might have had problems wielding that even at his peak. He went to seed quickly after he became king, but I doubt that will be a problem with you if you keep working in forges. And you seem a good enough man, anyways. I was curious about something. The girl, the Wild Wolf. Who’s she to you?”

Gendry’s tongue froze for a second, conditioned by a lifetime’s wariness of confiding in men, especially highborn men. Finally, it came to him. “She’s my family,” he whispered to Jaime. “She’s my family.”

Grinning, Jaime slowly nodded. “Good to know. If your father had accepted her aunt would never love him, Westeros and Robert would have been in a lot better shape.”

“She definitely loves me back,” Gendry said, the unfortunate incident in the Winterfell forge when Ser Jaime interrupted them well in his mind.

“Yes, indeed. Later, after this fighting, I might have another commission for you.” He drew his sword and laid it down on a nearby table. “I need someone to refashion this sword.”

Gendry looked down at it, noticed the distinctive rippling appearance of Valyrian steel. “My old master, Tobho Mott, I observed from him how to reforge Valyrian steel, though the making of new Valyrian steel was unknown to him, or anyone else, I think. I might be able to manage a reforging…”

“The blade is fine as it is,” Jaime said. “I need someone to redo the hilt and pommel of the sword.”

“You have an idea of a design in mind?”

“I do,” Jaime said, “I do. Once we get all this fighting done… I’ll show you. You willing to do it?”

“I would, Ser,” Gendry chuckled.

“Excellent,” Jaime said as he sheathed his blade. “Well, I think our business is concluded, then.”

“What do you want to do with this?” Gendry said, as he held up Jaime’s old golden hand.

“Oh, that’s yours, payment for fine craftmanship,” Jaime grinned. “Lannisters paying debts and all that.”

“Three, maybe two fingers on this hand would be plenty to pay for that work,” Gendry said. “I’m not sure…”

“Consider the remainder a wedding gift. And I do intend to bring more gold for the sword work as well. You have a talent, that is sure.”

“You happen to have any advice on love and marriage for me?” Gendry called out to Jaime as he began to depart the smithy.

Jaime turned around, both eyebrows raised and shoulders shrugged. “I’ve tried to understand love for five and twenty years, maybe, and I might finally understand what it _is_ now, but not much else. I was never married, so any advice from me on that would be useless. If you consider her your family, you seem to be more sensible than I ever was at your age. Blessings from the old gods and the new to your union, Smith Lord.”

“Blessings to you too, Ser,” Gendry replied.

After Jaime departed, Gendry thought to stuff the old golden hand into his bag to keep it out of sight. He was just turning back to his other work when he heard… “Greetings, Bull.”

He turned around. Arya was in her familiar leathers and breeches, leaning up against one of the building’s posts unsteadily. “Had a good time with the ladies, Arry?”

“You know it. If I’d realized there were so many interesting women in the North, I would have spent more time with them. The wisdom of age,” she said, shaking her head as she approached him.

With a hop, she jumped into his arms for a deep kiss, even wrapping her legs around his waist as he was able to taste the ale of the Mossy Lakeside on his own tongue. Many of the workers silently stared at the sight of their embrace. “He’s my betrothed, fuck off,” Arya growled at them, encouraging their attention to be focused elsewhere.

He cackled as he kissed her back. “What do I owe your visit on the eve of our wedding?”

“Apparently you had some kind of wedding gift for me, and I figured it was time to collect,” she said. With a jump and several extra hops to keep steady, she stood up on the ground.

“Uh, yeah, I did,” Gendry said, turning to his nearby workbench. “Look, I know you don’t like jewelry…”

“Ugh, you didn’t, did you?” Arya groaned as she followed in his wake.

“This isn’t some fancy pendant or whatever,” Gendry insisted. He stopped in front of a small section of canvas covering part of the table. “I thought this would be more appropriate for a woman with the blood of the First Men, appropriate for you.” He lifted the canvas off the table.

“What in… Seven fucking Hells.” She leaned over and nearly touched what she saw, but held back for a moment, taking in what she was seeing. Nervously, Gendry added, “I can change it if you want…”

“Gods, Bull, it’s_…” _she said, turning to him. “It’s… me. Would you help me put it on?”

“Aye, Arry, I would.”

#

**Jon**

“I’m surprised that’s where she wanted the ceremony,” Dany was telling him as they took a quick stroll on the top of Harrenhal’s southern curtain wall before their departure. “The castle’s godswood is in very fine shape, even if the face of its heart tree… it seems enraged, does it not?”

“I admit, it does, but that’s not the reason,” Jon chuckled. “She and Gendry were held captive here by the Lannisters for several months, early in the War of the Five Kings. Thank the old gods and new none of them knew their true identities… but, it wasn’t a pleasant experience. As it turns out, however, there is a place nearby all but covered with heart trees that will serve as well.”

They both gazed southward, over the waters of the God’s Eye, to the land mass squatting in the middle, a giant bullseye. “The Isle of Faces,” Dany said.

“By legend, that was supposedly where the race of men made The Pact with the Children of the Forest. In celebration, they gave every weirwood on the isle a face, so the Old Gods could witness the agreement. Apparently, my sister believes it will be a suitable place for her to make her own pact.”

“I admit it does make sense for her, but it will be a trip by boat for sure. Shame that we couldn’t just swoop down on Drogon and Rhaegal for it.”

“I’m not sure all of our expected guests would be willing to travel by dragonback,” Jon laughed. “It shouldn’t be too long of a trip.” He pointed to a group of longboats pulled up to the shore just east of Harrenhal’s walls. “It appears as though our ride is here.” He offered his arm to her. “Shall we, My Queen?”

Grinning, she accepted it. “Of course, My King.”

#

**Arya**

“Bloody Seven Hells, all this rowing is bringing back some memories of fleeing Dragonstone,” she heard behind her.

From her seat in the rear of the rowboat, Arya looked down as Gendry continued to strain at the oars to propel them to the Isle of Faces. “Don’t be silly, Bull,” she teased. “This is just a fraction of the distance between Dragonstone and King’s Landing, and you don’t have the tides to deal with here. Look, the shore’s just a few yards away.” She was slightly distracted at the sight of Gendry wearing just a leather jerkin above his waist, his arms straining to move them onto their destination.

Gendry looked behind them at the north shore of the lake. “Looks like the guests have shoved off.”

“They won’t be too long, but it will give us time to get ready,” Sansa said as she sat in the bow of the boat. Unlike Arya, she had already changed her clothes from their party in the winesink and exchanged them for an elegant ice blue dress with white pinstripes, as well as a white mink fur wrap around her shoulders.

Arya looked up again, then pulled off first one boot and then the other. “Here we are,” she said, jumping over the port side barefoot and hoisting a sizable sack above her head.

Sansa gasped, but then realized the water was now only a few feet deep as Arya waded onto shore, grabbing the bow line, and pulling the boat to shore. “Hammer,” she called out as she strained at the rope. “Just throw it.”

After tucking the oars into the side of the boat, Gendry reached down and picked up one of his forge hammers from the hull. “Here, Arry,” he called out, and then lofted it in her direction as Sansa ducked.

It landed in the sandy soil of the island’s shore just a foot away from Arya. “Thanks,” she said, grabbing it and using it to fasten the rope to the ground with a stake as Gendry quietly went over the port side.

Sansa stared over the bow at the wave-lapped shore with more than a little trepidation. “Arya, how…?”

“Allow me.” With both hands around her waist, Gendry hefted her into the air above the beach and carried her a few yards until she was able to place her boots on dry land. Even though she was taller and correspondingly heavier than her younger sister, and was carrying a modest sack of her own, Sansa’s soon-to-be goodbrother had no greater difficulty hefting her than he did Arya.

Sansa was startled, but managed to stammer out “Erm, thank you.” She looked around at her surroundings. The weirwoods covered the island, and no one could walk in any direction without their path being interrupted by a weirwood trunk within several yards. As the legends said, faces were carved into all the trees, most looking in one direction or the other, usually oriented at the four points of the compass. Moss and fallen weirwood leaves were the dominant covering on the ground.

Sansa walked up to one of the weirwoods on the edge of the isle’s beach. The face of the weirwood faced due west, but one could easily see the eastern sky behind it as the sun’s dying rays lit on its face. “How about this one?” Sansa said, strolling right up to its trunk. “I bet you’ll be able to see the moon from here when it rises from the east.”

Arya walked up to her and nodded approvingly. “This should do, and it’s close to where we’ll be at.”

“Follow me, ladies,” Gendry said with a bow. He picked his way through a path halfway between straight and crooked as the sisters followed, the heart trees regarding their progress with bored curiosity.

After a few minutes, Gendry passed between two heart trees into what appeared to be open ground. “Here we go,” he said.

It was a small roughly circular clearing, maybe five and twenty yards in diameter at most. Arya thought the tangle of branches from the nearby weirwoods would have protected at least half the clearing from the rays of the noon-day sun. Moss and fallen weirwood leaves and branches covered the ground. At the opposite end of the clearing, only half-under the tree canopy, there stood a tent large enough to be suitable for a lord on campaign. “How’d I do?” Gendry said with an expectant stare.

His expression vaguely reminded Arya of when Bran or Rickon attempted some task when they were very young, and she found herself grinning despite herself. “It’s lovely, thank you, Bull.”

“It’s a queer place for sure,” Sansa whispered as she started at the heart trees lining the clearing. “They’re all staring right at us.”

A sudden thought excited Arya’s love for stories from the past, something that had not dimmed with the years. “For all we know, this might have been the exact place where men and the Children signed the Pact,” she speculated.

“I guess it might, although there’s a couple of other clearings I saw similar to this around the island,” Gendry said. “I picked this since it wasn’t all that far from the shore. It could be where they met, though.” He turned to Sansa. “I don’t know when everyone else will get here, but I guess Arya needs to get changed…”

“You go ahead and go first, Gendry,” Sansa said. “You shouldn’t take as long and that way we won’t hold you up.”

“Fair enough,” Gendry nodded rapidly, then he ran across the clearing, tossed the tent’s front flap open, and closed it after him.

With her sack over her shoulder, Arya walked into the clearing and toward the tent, with Sansa following her. When she was in the middle of the clearing, however, she suddenly stopped and let the sack drop onto the ground. _I have to do something. I can’t just _not_ say something here. _Facing east, Arya sank to her knees and bowed her head to the chorus of heart tree faces before her.

Sansa stood over her. “Arya, what…?”

“I’m praying to _them. _The Old Gods. If this is their place, they need to know why I’m here,” she whispered.

Wordlessly, Sansa pulled a blanket out of her sack and laid it down next to Arya, then knelt beside her. Arya managed to keep from grinning. _When we were younger, Sansa seemed to be the one out of all of us willing to follow Mother’s beliefs in the Seven. She married under the eyes of the Old Gods, so… maybe that’s changed?_

She put that out of her mind, focusing on the heart trees before her. _I come here to honor you by pledging my love to this man. This is your place, not mine, but I wish to honor you. I never thought I would marry. I never thought I would love a man, but I never knew a man like him existed. So, here I am. Please, look out for us. Look out for my pack._

As she finished her thoughts, the first sliver of the moon began to peek its way over the tops of the heart trees. Whether it was an omen from the Old Gods or just impeccable timing, she could not say.

“Arya? I’m finished.”

She slowly rose, Sansa beside her, and walked the rest of the way to the front of the tent. “All right, come out.”

“No, wait,” he said. “I’ll go out the back here, and then you come in.”

“What are you playing at, Bull?”

“I want to be surprised seeing you and you surprised seeing me, all right, Arry? Come on.”

“Silly ex-bastard,” she muttered under her breath as Sansa suppressed a chuckle. “Go on, then,” she called out.

There was a rustling noise at the back of the tent. “Ready, Arry.”

“Right, then, get back to the shore so everyone knows where to stand. We’ll see you in a bit.”

She ducked her head into the tent. There was a well-built fire pit in the middle of the tent, with plenty of firewood nearby. A crudely built bed sat to the right, made of rough-hewn logs and a thick mattress that made up in size where it lacked in sophistication. At the other end of the tent were a simple wooden table and two chairs, and a dressing table with a bronze mirror on top.

“Bull managed well,” Arya said, shedding her jacket and flinging it at the foot of the bed.

“At least he got the mirror,” Sansa said. “We’ll need that to make sure we can pull off this look…” She stopped as she saw Arya’s tunic flutter through the air and join her jacket on the ground, then stared at what wasn’t underneath. “Arya!” she said, eyes bugging out. “Where in Seven Hells are your smallclothes?”

Arya stared at her in disbelief. “It’s my wedding night, silly. What the fuck am I going to need smallclothes for?”

“Gods’ sake.” Sansa rolled her eyes and began digging into her and Arya’s sacks as Arya began to undo the laces of her trousers. “Get over here when you’re done and we’ll get you sorted.”

#

**Davos**

“I have to say, this seems about the strangest wedding ceremony I’ve ever attended,” Marya said to him.

He squeezed her hand in his as they rode toward the Isle of Faces in a longboat, their sons riding along behind them. “Apparently the girl wanted to be married in the eyes of the old gods. If I know the lad well, and I think I do, he was smart enough to do what she wanted.”

“Then why not get married at the castle godswood?”

“From what the lad… Lord Gendry said, they were kept prisoner there for a while. Left a bad taste in their mouth, likely.”

Marya let out a sigh that conveyed her full knowledge and amusement at the follies of men and women. “It seems more like a secret wedding than a ceremony between highborns. You have any idea why she asked…?”

Davos shook his head. “I got to know the lad well over the years, but the girl I barely know. To be honest, I’m curious to ask her myself when I get a chance.”

Their boat began to pull up to the shore of the island. Only the longboat carrying Jon and Daenerys had made it to the shore before them. They were the only ones with Gendry other than Lord Brandon and the Reed girl.

He approached Jon. “Your Grace…”

Jon pulled him into an unexpected hug. “Glad you are here. Glad they’re here, too,” he said, nodding to Maryse and the boys, whom Jon and Daenerys had gotten to meet after they had arrived that day at Harrenhal.

“The winds were kind, Lord Admiral?” Daenerys quipped.

“Calm enough on these waters, thank you kindly, Your Grace,” Davos said, bowing to her.

He’d barely straightened up when he was enveloped in a massive bearhug. “Davos! Da… Ser Davos, great to see you,” Lord Gendry said.

“Wonderful to see you again, Lord Gendry,” Davos chuckled. “My lord, I don’t believe you’ve met my family.” There were enthusiastic introductions all around. “Looking good tonight, my lord.”

“Hope so, hope so.”

“And I guess you might have taken that advice I gave you back in Winterfell?”

Gendry laughed at that. “I did, eventually, I did.”

Davos looked around for a moment. “So, where might I find your prospective bride then, lad?”

“Along that path through the trees there,” he said, pointing toward the woods. “You’ll see a tent in a clearing after a while – they’ll be there.”

“Good luck, my lord,” Davos said.

He made his way through the path, barely visible with the torch he was carrying, but he could see enough trodden grass and snapped twigs to surmise where the path lay. Eventually, he made it to the clearing and saw the tent there, with a narrow plume of smoke rising from the center of its roof.

Davos trod with care across the clearing, sticking the torch in the ground, and stopped within a few feet of the tent door. “Hello?” he called out. “Lady Arya?”

He heard some rustling and movement inside the tent for a few moments, and then he saw Lady Sansa stick her head out of the tent. “Ser Davos, glad you are here,” she said. “Come on in, Arya is ready.”

_From what I’ve heard of her, she’ll likely be sulking in a silk dress or happy as a child wearing leather armor, _he thought. However, as he ducked his head through the tent opening and stepped inside, he beheld a totally different situation.

Arya stood up from a dressing table at one corner of the tent and turned around. She was wearing a grey wool and velvet dress with black velvet trim, simple yet elegant in its cut and design, with a high black velvet collar. The design of weirwood branches and leaves reached around the hem of her dress upward to about knee-level. With her chestnut hair down around her shoulders except for a simple Northern-style braid, she wore a wreath of weirwood leaves on her head and held a pair of two long-stemmed blue winter roses in her left hand.

Her grey eyes widened as she saw him enter. “Ser Davos, so glad to see you,” she said, and he was surprised to sense the truth in her sentiment.

Davos finally found his voice. “I have to say, my lady, you do look amazing this evening.”

She looked down at her feet. “Sansa made this for me. I’m surprised to say it suits me, in some way.” She looked upward. “The wreath was my idea, but Sansa was the one who made it work.”

“I was going to go back and make sure everyone is here,” Sansa said, as she made her way to the tent flap. “Is there anything else you need?”

“No, I’ll be fine,” Arya said with a soft smile. “Let everyone know Ser Davos and I will be along soon.” With a nod, Sansa exited the tent.

As Arya walked up to him, he noticed something else about what she was wearing. There was a torc, or open neck ring, around her throat. Such a ring was uncommon in Westeros except for those of First Men descent, especially Freefolk. Hers appeared to be made of braided bronze. He saw that the ends of the torc were decorated with twin bronze direwolf heads.

She stopped in front of him. “The lad made you that?” he said, nodding.

She nodded. “Usually I’m not a fan of jewelry, but Gendry thought this might be appropriate for a woman of the First Men. I think he knows me better than even I thought.” She ran her right hand over one of the bronze direwolf heads. “Maybe he can make me another one of these with hammers at the ends. Or bull heads.”

“Uh… erm, my lady, I have to say I was surprised at your request to escort you to your ceremony – honored, mind, but it was a surprise. I know that your father is not here, and your brother will be performing the ceremony, but I don’t know you nearly as well as Gendry. I did…”

“If it were not for you, Ser Davos, my brother would be ashes in a funeral pyre at Castle Black,” Arya interrupted him. “It was you who sought out the assistance that revived him. If it was not for your compassion, the man I’m about to marry would have been blood sacrificed by Stannis Baratheon on Dragonstone.” She reached out and took his left hand in her right. “We do not know each other well, true, but you are an important part of my life, regardless, and I owe you so much I can not repay. I hope this is a token, however small, of my appreciation. I would hope that we could be friends, and that my family and yours would become friends.”

He could feel her hand shaking in hers, and reached over with his other to give it a reassuring pat. “Well, when put that way, I’m truly honored, I am. And, I and my family would be happy to get to know you better.” He pointed to the tent flap. “Shall we?”

She went to a chair next to the dressing table and picked up from the chair a grey cloak with a black Stark direwolf sigil on its back. As she tied it around her neck, she nodded her assent. “Ready.”

Offering his left arm, she looped her right arm through it as they exited the tent and walked through the clearing. “I must confess, Ser, I also have… another reason to get to know you better,” she said. “My brother intends to make Gendry and I high lord and lady of the Stormlands. I have been to many places, but I have never even visited the Stormlands, much less lived there. I would appreciate any… insights that you could give me regarding the kingdom and its people.”

_Smart girl, _he thought. “Well, I’d be happy to tell you what I know, but to be honest, my wife Marya might be an even better source of information on that than me. She’s been the one living there and raising my boys while I was running around, first sailing, then serving King Stannis and King Jon. She’d be a good one to talk to.”

“I’d look forward to that very much,” Arya said.

#

**Arya**

She figured that she had been running away from marriage for most of her life.

As a young girl, nothing about the prospect had filled her with anything except pure dread. It did not matter how much her mother and, to a smaller extent, her father, discussed her duty to her house by marrying a lord and having his children. Sansa’s ranting about having Prince Joffrey’s babies had done nothing to dissuade her from her feelings.

The nightmare always went the same way. She pictured a solemn ceremony in some sept to please her mother and whatever southren family she would be marrying into. The balding septon reeking of incense would warble some words and pronounce her married. Her groom would either be some perfumed pretty-boy knight who cared more for his looks than hers or some old fat lord looking to warm his bed with a virgin. Both would consider her a pretty face with a womb and little else. The wedding feast would be a trial and the bedding something best lost to memory.

But as she exited the woods and entered the site of her real ceremony, she was surprised at how calm she truly was. _That might be because this looks nothing like I pictured it might be, _she thought.

Instead of a sept, she stood on the shore of an island. To the left of her was the lake and Harrenhal looming in the distance. In front was a heart tree, the crescent moon in the sky, and Jon and Daenerys waiting underneath its branches. To her right was a legion of heart trees overseeing the ceremony, joined by her loved ones – Sansa, Brandon and Meera, her friends from the North – even the Hound was skulking in the back of the crowd.

Then there was _him, _standing jittery and hopeful next to Jon and Daenerys under the tree. _My Bull. _He wore a silk yellow tunic with the new Baratheon sigil across his chest under an open black leather jacket. Black leather trousers and boots, and a yellow wool cloak with the bull and hammers sigil on the back completed the outfit. His black hair had started to grow out on the trip south, and she wasn’t sure if she preferred him closely shorn or with the black wavy hair of his father. _I’d be interested in seeing what it might look like._

Most importantly, however, the man she was about to marry was no stuck-up stranger lord. _This man is my family._ She didn’t know if it had happened in truth before he’d been sold to the Red Witch or when he’d come to Winterfell, but it had happened all the same. With Davos by her side, she approached the heart tree.

Arya and Davos stopped a few paces away from Jon, who couldn’t help beaming at her. “Who comes before the Old Gods this night?” he intoned.

She gathered her breath for a moment before speaking out. “Arya Stark, of House Stark,” she said. “A woman grown, flowered, trueborn, and noble. She comes to beg the blessings of the Old Gods. Who comes to claim her?”

“G… Gendry Baratheon, of House Baratheon,” her betrothed called out in a clear voice, despite what appeared to be a slight case of nerves. “Who gives her?”

“Ser Davos Seaworth of House Seaworth,” Davos said. “Friend of the groom… and the bride.” He kissed her right hand before leading her to Gendry’s side. “Good luck, lad,” he whispered to Gendry.

“Thanks.” He stared down at her. “You’re so beautiful,” he said, barely able to catch his breath.

“Talk about moony eyes,” Arya murmured with a smirk.

“Lady Arya of House Stark, do you take this man?” Jon’s words snapped her back into focus.

Two pairs of grey eyes locked into each other’s gaze as Arya gathered herself. “I take this man,” she said in a voice clear enough to travel through the crowd.

With a nod and a gesture with his hand, Jon bade them to kneel before the tree. _This is truly happening, _is all she could think of. She’d already said her prayers to the Old Gods.

As they eventually got to their feet, she heard Jon say, “You may bring the bride into your family.” She felt Gendry fumble at and finally undo her cloak, then he lifted it off her shoulders and handed it to Sansa. He then undid the cloak around his neck, the one with the Baratheon sigil, and tied it around her neck.

He framed her face with both his hands and leaned down to kiss her. “My wife,” he whispered when they parted, seemingly not believing his own words.

“Husband,” she whispered back. _It’s true._

Jon walked over to them and put his arm around both his sister and new goodbrother. “Everyone, I would like to introduce the bride and groom, Lady Arya Stark Baratheon and Lord Gendry Baratheon.”

Applause rippled through the crowd, and Sansa and Bran, with Meera pushing him, led the crowd of well-wishers to give their congratulations. After the bride and groom shook what seemed to be a legion’s worth of hands, Jon pointed toward the longboats beached onto the shore. “We’ll be celebrating both my sister and goodbrother’s wedding and the marriage of Sigorn and Alys Karstark this evening in Hunter’s Hall.”

“That’s our cue,” Arya whispered to Gendry. With a single movement, he swept her into his arms and headed for the path through the woods.

“Arya? Arya? Where are you going? The feast…” Jon called after them.

Arya looked behind them over Gendry’s shoulder. “We’re staying on the island for a day or two,” she said. “Don’t worry, go ahead and have the party without us – Alys will appreciate it. Give her my best wishes, by the way. We’ll be fine, Jon.”

“Are you sure?” Daenerys called after them, eyebrow arched.

“Gendry’s got everything set up for us,” Arya said as the couple disappeared in the weirwood woods. “We’ll be fine, and we’ll come back to the castle in time for the great council and the Stormlands lords or whatever, honest. Love you all.” The two disappeared into the woods.

Sansa sidled up to Jon. “Give her some credit,” she said. “If it was up to her, she likely would have eloped somewhere with him and either said their own vows in front of a random weirwood tree or found some begging brother to perform a ceremony.”

“Aye, you’re right,” Jon sighed. “Might as well get back to the castle, then.”

#

**Lyanna**

She usually felt awkward at wedding parties, and tonight was no exception.

The Lady of Bear Island was grateful for her seat in a well-padded straight-back chair as she rested in Hunter’s Hall, taking in the wedding feast. Although it was intended to be the celebration of both the new Lord and Lady Baratheon and the new Magnar and Lady Karstark of the Thenns, only the latter couple were present in the hall at the table of honor along with the High King and Queen and Crown Princess Sansa.

It was much easier for her to sit for longer periods of time now than in the days after the Battle of the Long Night, where she’d been confined to bed for at least a fortnight. Her skull was no longer as sore and the headaches had faded to a fraction of their former intensity. The ribs that had made standing and walking such a trial had started to mend, although she still wore the wrappings around her torso underneath her dark green dress and black woolen jacket. The sling keeping her right arm next to her side was the only outer sign of her infirmity. In private, she had begun to use her right arm and hand to lift ever heavier objects above her head. She estimated that she’d be able to swing a sword with something approaching her old strength in another fortnight.

She was glad her and the other Northern women had gotten together earlier, because they were scattered that evening. Arya was on the Isle of Faces, of course, and Alys was accepting congratulations from all the Northern lords, ladies, and other notables. Sansa was doing her part to be master of ceremonies, introducing everyone to each other and making sure they were as comfortable as possible. _She’ll be good as our Queen. _Munda and Ned were with a raucous Tormund and a sizable Freefolk contingent that had taken up several tables and were deep into a round of songs and dancing contests. Meera was with her father and Brandon amongst a comparatively subdued table of crannogmen, while Lyanna herself sat alone at one end of a table and a small group of Manderly men occupied the other end.

She was no Jon Snow or Arya Stark, but she’d noticed both adults and children taking more note of her ever since the battle. Some even went so far to call her Lyanna Giantsbane for her actions that evening, but none out loud and only through second-hand sources. Even though the wedding crowd was primarily Northerners, there were few people she could recognize.

“My lady? Excuse me, my lady?”

The voice came from behind her left shoulder, so she looked over and up. It was a boy there, around her age, barely able to meet her eyes and shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He was slender, perhaps a touch taller than herself, with brown hair cut short to his skull and an open, unguarded face. He was wearing a rough blue tunic with battered boots and well-used brown breaches. “Yes?” Lyanna asked.

He finally stared at her with wide honey brown eyes. “Pardon me, my lady, I was wondering if you wanted something to drink. Things are a bit hectic and it might be a bother for you to get something,” he said, pointing to her arm.

Normally, she would have been annoyed at a boy trying to help her out, but under the circumstances, she didn’t mind as much. It might _have _been a bother, and the boy didn’t seem to be like many others she’d encountered who wanted to prove his manliness. This one seemed to just want to help, and unlike the others, would have preferred not to be noticed.

“Erm, thank you,” she said. “To be honest, do you think you might be able to swipe some ale?”

The boy looked to his left and his right. “Aye, I might. Mind you, I might end up swiping a few drops for myself, as well. Be right back.”

_He doesn’t have a Northern accent, _she thought as he walked away, _but not one of the more refined ones from the Reach or lilting like Dorne’s. Where did this one come from?_

Within a couple of minutes, the boy had hurried to her side and set down in front of her a jug and two mugs. He poured full servings of nut-brown ale popular in the Riverlands into both mugs. “Do you mind if I sit…”

“I’m Lyanna, of House Mormont,” she interrupted. “Feel free to sit. And thank you,” raising her mug and taking her first sip. “I needed some more of this, to be honest,” she admitted, chuckling. She turned to the boy. “I don’t recognize you. What’s your name?”

“Stannis,” he said. “Stannis of House Seaworth. You’re a Northerner, aye? Not likely you ever saw me. My family lives on Cape Wrath in the rainwood, part of the Stormlands. I think this is the farthest north I’ve ever traveled.”

“Seaworth,” she said slowly, examining his face. “Are you relation to Ser Davos Seaworth, the Mas… Minister of Sail for the king and queen?”

“Aye, he’s my father,” Stannis nodded, taking his first sip of ale.

“He named you after his lord, Lord Stannis Baratheon?”

“Right, he served as his Hand for a while.”

“How do you feel about your name?”

Stannis gave a half shrug. “Father told me plenty of stories of him. He did good and bad, but he helped make my father what he is. It’s… fitting, I’ll say that. What happened with your arm, might I ask?”

Lyanna smirked at that. “If I told you the truth, you might not believe it.”

“I’d be willing to listen.”

“Heh. Maybe later, perhaps.”

“Fair enough, then. How come you’re by yourself here?”

She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes for a moment before attempting to answer. “Well, I do have some bannermen and retainers, but I gave them the night off. As for the rest… well, I happen to be the last of my family now.”

“The last of… oh, my,” Stannis’ voice dropped to a whisper, and stared down at his lap. “I’m very sorry.”

“It’s all right,” she said, setting down her mug and patting his arm for a moment. “There’s moments I don’t think about it as much, so I manage.” She looked around the hall again. “I do have some friends here, but… they’re otherwise engaged at the moment,” she said, nodding to Lady Alys and her new husband.

Stannis saw where she was looking. “Oh, aye, I see. To be honest, I’ve not been to many of these wedding feasts meself.”

“They can be a bit dreary at times, or otherwise raucous. Since the groom here is Freefolk, it might be more of the latter. Nowadays, it just reminds me of my _duties,”_ she said, groaning the last word.

“Duties?”

“Getting married myself,” she said, scowling. “It’s not something I have to get done now, or a year from now, but two, three years from now? I’ll be up on a bloody dais myself making toasts.”

“You’re not interested in that?” Stannis asked as he took another sip.

“It’s something I have to do, even want to do, to a point,” she said, draining her mug. As Stannis refilled it for her, she continued. “I know I don’t want to be the last of my house, so I will need to get married. According to Princess Sansa, the Lady of Winterfell, Their Graces are allowing women to pass along the name of their house to their children rather than the name of the husband if the couple agree to it. I’d want that, so I’d have to marry someone willing to agree to that.”

“Really? I mean, not that something like that is wrong, mind, but what men would be willing to do that?”

“Maybe a commoner not needing to pass along his name, but that might not work out. Maybe some hedge knight from the south, or a second son of some smaller house.”

He gave another half shrug. “Hm. Maybe someone like that would be willing to agree to that.”

“You know something of second sons, Stannis Seaworth?” Lyanna teased. “You one of them yourself?”

“Uh, yea… no, no,” he said, his mood darkening as he shook his head, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m a third son, I’m a third son.”

_That’s strange._ “But wh…”

“I had an older brother, Dale,” Stannis muttered. “He died fighting alongside my father at the Battle of Blackwater Bay. I’m the second oldest of my surviving brothers, but I’m still a third brother.” He took a long gulp of his mug.

She put her hand over his as he set his mug down on the table. “Stannis, I’m sorry.”

“You wouldn’t have known, and besides, you know plenty about loss yourself,” he said, shaking his head. “Think nothing of it.”

“Anyway, I’d want someone who would be willing to help me continue our legacy,” she said. “House Mormont is small and humble, but my ancestors were proud men and strong women. You understand?”

“I understand about pride in where you come from,” he said, nodding rapidly. “It’s the same way with my father. He grew up the son of a crabber in Flea Bottom, a Kingslander, then became the best smuggler in the seas of Westeros. The legends tell of how Storm’s End never fell to invaders, but they were about to surrender there if it wasn’t for my father. He gave up the first joints of his left hand to be a landed knight, but he did it for _us_, me mother and brothers. I’m proud to be the Onion Knight’s son.” He caught himself and looked away, taking another drink. _That was probably the biggest boast he ever made in his life, _she thought.

Turning back to her, Stannis asked, “Any other qualifications you’d be looking for in a potential husband?”

She chuckled at that. “Any potential husband of mine would have to realize that I would not be someone willing to sit in the shadows,” she said. “I’ve fought and bled alongside my men. I have been on my own, dealing with lords and kings alike. I am not some shrinking violet. It’s something I learned from my mother, a she-bear if there ever was one. However, it’s not something many men are comfortable with, even in the North.”

“Ah, I’d be all right with it, to be honest,” Stannis said, puffing out his chest.

“What, you know many warrior women?” she snorted.

“My mother was never a warrior, but she was tough, never doubt it,” he insisted, waving a finger at her. “She had to raise four boys, rowdy at times, mostly on her own. Father was either at sea much of the time or serving King Stannis or King Jon as we grew up. What, she was going to send a raven every time we misbehaved to get Father’s advice?” he scoffed. “No. She sorted us out and we minded her, no exceptions. You asked me if I mind a strong woman, I _came _from a strong woman, no doubt.”

_He’s more assertive talking of his mother than himself. _“I do not doubt that, Stannis,” she replied, starting on her third ale of that evening, not counting what she’d had that afternoon. “Have you thought of marriage?” she asked, cocking one eyebrow.

He returned to his flummoxed state. “Well, to be fair, I thought I would have a few years to worry about that,” he said. “I’m four and ten, but my brother’s eight and ten, and he’s going to my father now to ask for his blessing for marriage. Apparently, he fell for the daughter of some knight who serves us at Seaworth Hall, our keep on Shipbreaker’s Bay. Esther is her name. She’s pretty enough, I guess – I haven’t gotten to know her.”

“So… you would be all right with a strong-willed woman as a potential wife,” Lyanna drawled. “I told you, so you tell me – is there anything _you_ would need a potential wife to be?”

“She’d have to be strong-willed, honestly,” he said. “I want to be a sea captain like my father, no doubt in my mind. Maybe a member of the royal fleet, or an explorer – there’s plenty of the seas we have no idea of. She’d have to be able to be independent while I was at sea, surely.”

“Surely,” she repeated back with a hint of jape.

“Honestly, she’d have to have grown up with the sea for me to consider her, I think,” Stannis continued. “If a girl hadn’t lived on the edge of saltwater, wasn’t used to the waves and ships and fishing, I don’t think she’d be able to understand me, I honestly don’t. I mean, no offense to Northerners, but most of you live in the woods or the Barrowlands, far away from any saltwater or notions of what sailing and the sea is like. It would be tough for someone who hadn’t grown up next to the sea to understand me.”

A grin unfamiliar to her spread across Lyanna’s face as she took in his words. “Actually, I live on Bear Island, in the Bay of Ice just off the Sunset Sea.”

Now his grin matched hers. “You _do_, now?” he sighed contentedly. “Interesting. What’s the fishing like around your home?” She sorted through her memories of household seafood meals as she began to answer him.

#

**Arya**

“How’s the feast tonight, Arry? It’s not quite roast pork or a good steak…”

“No, no, don’t say that, Gendry,” she hastened to say, hand over her heart. “This was quite a lovely dinner, actually.”

As the two of them sat there around the table in their tent, covered with the remnants of that meal, she was not telling any falsehoods. Gendry had decided on some largemouthed bass he’d caught fresh that day, roasted over the fire and drenched with butter, alongside some roasted potatoes and carrots. It was light and full of sweet, buttery flavor – which was an advantage given the lateness of the hour and what they were drinking.

She picked up the brown bottle the size of a wine bottle and filled his goblet again with the amber liquid within. “This… black rum,” Gendry said, sniffing at his goblet experimentally. “Where did you say you got it?”

“The Mossy Lakeside, this winesink Sansa and I and some of the other ladies visited today. Got a good price on two bottles of the stuff,” she said, topping off her own goblet with the liquid. “Ser Davos said this is popular with many a sailor, manages to keep even better than ale or wine over long sea voyages.”

“Seven Hells,” he said, wincing as he took a sip and set his goblet down. “I’ll have to pace myself drinking that spirit.”

“What, afraid you’ll take leave of your senses?” she chuckled.

“No, it was something Tormund once said to me, on our trip up Beyond the Wall,” he said, not quite able to meet her eyes. “He told me that if a man gets too drunk, hi… his cock isn’t able to get hard, not even if he wants it to be.” He was obviously blushing by the time he looked up. “I know it won’t be… it won’t be our first time, but I didn’t want to ruin anything by taking too many drinks.”

“Aww, Bull,” she said. “That’s sweet; I appreciate that. I also appreciate that _I _don’t have to worry about getting _my _cock hard.” Cackling, she downed half the rum in her goblet and had to concentrate a bit to make sure she set it down flat onto the table. She had gotten more comfortable, removing her wedding cloak and the weirwood crown, undoing her braid, as well as slipping off her grey satin shoes.

He leaned forward a bit and laid his hand on her open one. “So, what _are _you worried about?” His cornflower blue eyes sparkled at he locked her into his gaze, a wry smile on his lips.

She thought of trying to put him off, to evade the question, but the rum and other spirits from earlier in the day had lowered her emotional guards. “I’m worried about the fact that I’m _not _worried, to be honest.”

“I… what?” Gendry crinkled his brow at that – she saw that he wasn’t quite understanding.

“All my life, I was worried about marrying some stupid man and losing myself, not being myself,” she said, setting the dinner plates aside. “I was worried I’d have to change who I was, make myself miserable in the process. But then I met you. At first, you were just a friend, a friend I didn’t have to hide who I was… but then it turned into something different. Bloody hells, maybe it started way back when we were captive in Harrenhal and I saw you swinging that stupid sword around your head and thinking how strong you looked. It _was_ there the second I saw you in Winterfell.

“Anyway, after a lifetime of brooding and angst about the possibility of marriage, there I was a couple hours ago, walking up to a heart tree and pledging myself to you from now until my last days, and I didn’t even hesitate,” she continued, noticing that she was breathing faster.

“Well, you didn’t say _those _words…”  
  


“I _meant _those words for sure,” she said, downing the rest of her goblet, pouring another serving, and then staring down at her lap for a few moments. “I threw away my name and house symbol and took on yours.”

“You added a name, not threw yours away.”

“Thank you for that… Gods,” she groaned, shaking her head and wiping away any possible excess moisture in her eyes.

His hand had not left hers. “Tell me what you are thinking,” he said with a squeeze of her hand.

She squeezed back, taking a shuddering breath. “I’m worried that somehow I’m going to be kept up in that castle by the ocean and never allowed to run free. I’m worried that you will let me run free and it will make you look bad to all the other lords. I’m worried that maybe I don’t want to run free anymore.”

“Arry, Arry, no,” he whispered. “You can go as you please, I swear it. The only thing I ask is that you come back in the end. And, if I can manage it, I would like to go with you. I’m not your master and you are not mine. We’re partners in this thing, now until the rest of our days. If not with you, then I wouldn’t have even _done _this with anyone else. I’d rather let my line die out and will whatever to some random lord in that case. I love you and only you, remember that.”

“I know, and I do love you,” Arya said, standing up with her goblet in hand. “But you are wrong in one sense, Bull. I am the master of your heart, and you are the master of mine, I think. That thrills and terrifies me all at once.”

Gendry stared at her, open-mouthed, as she took another drink and then continued. “I fear that part of me is looking for a way that I can break my bond with you, even now,” she whispered. “I fear that it’s already too late, and our hearts are forever bonded together until our deaths. I fear that part of me that is totally at peace with this, and wonder what that means to me.”

“I know I am bonded with you, always,” he said, standing up.

She drained her goblet and with a hiccup, placed it back on the table. “Father always said that we needed to learn how to stick to a decision once it is made. Now I think I need to heed that advice.” She looked out through the open tent flap. “These are our woods tonight,” she whispered. “We are the lord and lady of these woods.”

“Arry, I…” He was silenced by the sight of his new bride undoing the laces to the back of her gown. She could only hear their heavy breathing and the rustle of fabric as she eventually shrugged both shoulders, letting her gown fall to her waist.

_“I _intend to make a survey of these lands this evening,” she said, easing her gown over her hips, letting it fall to the ground. She only wore his torc around her neck. She picked up her gown and laid it over the chair she’d been sitting in. “Get undressed and follow me,” she commanded, turning toward the tent opening. “It is time that you fulfilled your lordly duties.” He’d thrown off his jacket and started to unbutton his tunic by the time she stepped out of the tent.

The moss on the ground felt cool but not chilly underneath her bare soles. She remembered many late-night adventures exploring the woods as a child, but usually they’d not involved nakedness except for occasional dips in the wild hot springs around Winterfell. This seemed something totally different altogether, however. As she made her way to the center of the clearing, she felt the eyes of the heart trees staring at her in mild curiosity. _I promised them a pact,_ a voice tittered inside her head. _I need to seal the pact now._

“Arry?” she heard behind her.

She turned around. Gendry stood tall and naked before the tent, the moonlight reflecting off his shoulders and torso. His shoulders were broad and thick, the ridges of his stomach standing out in the moonshadows. His arms and legs were long and packed with muscle, both on the upper and lower part of his limbs.

As for his groin – well, whatever japes Meera loved to make, he did _not _have a horse’s cock. It was… _sizable_, however, and despite the worries he’d shared with her earlier, he stood out straight and parallel to the ground, and it caused her to pause her breath for a moment. “Arry?” he called out again, his blue eyes filled half with lust and half with some undefined desperation.

She held out a hand. “Come here, Lord of these Woods.”

He trod toward her as if she was pulling him in on a rope or by string. _I have enslaved his heart, _she thought, not with happiness or sadness, but as pure fact.

Gendry stopped in front of her. She felt so small as she felt his huge hands envelop her shoulders. “Arry, what do you…?”

“You are my improper Lord of the Woods and I am your improper Lady of the Woods, yes?” she giggled, her heart pounding out of her chest as the wooden eyes of the heart trees were on her and her husband. “So, it’s time for us to mate here.”

She turned around, the image of Nymeria mating with Red Claw outside Winterfell surprising her as it flashed across her consciousness. She found herself sinking to her knees, the insteps of her feet laying on the ground, as she leaned forward and planted the heels of both hands onto the moss.

Arya felt the _thud _as Gendry sunk to first one knee and then the other, then crawled on his knees until he was behind her, one of his hands gliding across her backside and leaving her trembling despite herself. “Like this?” he hissed, desperate.

“_Yes_,” she breathed, closing her eyes. “Mate with me, Bull… _ohhhh,” _she moaned as she felt his familiar shape enter her from an unfamiliar and exciting angle. The feeling of his hands enveloping her hips and guiding her onto him was almost as breathtaking.

“_Oh Gods,” _he moaned, and she felt him shudder as his hips found a steady rhythm.

Normally, she might have wanted some preliminary caresses and play, but tonight she felt the tension building inside her despite herself and simply thrust back against Gendry moving behind her. _Yes._ She looked over her left shoulder, saw him barely in control as he continued to thrust against her. “Breed me, Bull,” she said, finally fixing her grey eyes to his blue.

“Arry…”

“Come _on! _Fuck!” she howled, as she felt herself building to climax. To her shock, she saw him reach forward and grab her hair, pulling her head back with only the slightest of pressure as he continued to move inside her, a machine. _It feels good, being in his grasp… but I have him. He’ll do whatever I want. Bull would do anything for me… he’d give his life for me, he’d do anything…_

She looked back at him, eyes wide. Arya found herself saying, “Gendry? I want your child.” Her head whipped back facing front, her hand covering her mouth in disbelief. _Oh Gods, why did I say that? Why? He’s going to be horrified…_

…only to feel him speed up the pace of his thrusts, both hands firmly on her hips and his deep breaths above hers. _Oh, Gods, _she thought as the sensations began to overwhelm her and Gendry slammed into her from behind, all restraint gone.

She howled as the biggest orgasm she’d ever felt tore through her, leaving her thighs and arms shuddering and barely able to support her. At the same moment, Gendry _roared_, not moaned, shoving his hips against her backside as spasm after spasm shot his seed deep inside her. She felt herself shivering uncontrollably as he draped himself across her back, his sweat melding with hers.

Arya trembled so much that she almost collapsed onto the ground, but Gendry held her against him, guided her down onto the ground so they were laying on their sides, with him behind her. “It’s all right,” he whispered to her insistently, wrapping his arms around her waist. “It’s all right.”

She twisted around so that she faced him. “Bull, I… I don’t know why I said that. I’m sorry, I don’t know…”

“Shhhhh,” Gendry whispered, brushing his hand against the right side of her face. “Don’t worry. It’s all right. You don’t _have_ to know.”

“Bull…”

“You’re my _wife, _Arya,” he insisted, taking her chin in his hand. “Don’t worry about what you said. You can be awkward with me or wrong with me or unclear with me, just like I can be with you. It doesn’t matter. You’re safe with me. Always.”

A shudder ran through her as she started to feel the cold against her side and haunches. “Thanks, Bull,” she whispered as she kissed him on the nose. She got up on her knees and then her feet, then held her hand out for her husband. “It’s getting chilly out here,” she said. “Perhaps we need to get to bed.”

“Perhaps,” he responded, taking her hand and getting to his feet.

She picked her way back to the tent, him close behind her as she felt his seed start to leak out of her and down one of her legs. By the time Gendry stepped through the tent opening, she had walked to the bed, thrown off the covers, and laid down. “Join me, Bull,” she chuckled, raising her feet and legs in the air and wide to tease him a bit. Then she realized that her knees and the soles of her feet were covered with green and brown stains from the moss and ground outside, and she could feel herself starting to blush across her face and the top of her chest.

His laughs echoed through the tent as he got onto the bed. “You certainly have the look of a Lady of the Woods, now,” he said, leaning down and brushing a kiss over her mud-spattered big toe.

She leaned up and smacked him in the gut. “Shut it,” she growled, but she was still grinning.

He loomed over her, leaning in and kissing her, his tongue probing and playing with her own. Straining, she reached down between his legs and was surprised that he was already starting to harden. “I’ll take that, thank you,” she chuckled, grabbing him and guiding his head toward her opening with a surprised moan from Gendry. “Hehe, don’t act like you don’t like this.” Then she pulled him into her.

Within a minute or two, he was moving above her, filling her up. Gendry was in a frantic mood, eyes big as tea saucers as he stared down at her. “Gods, Arry, I can’t get enough of you.”

“What are you waiting for?” she smirked, reaching up, grabbing the back of his neck and pulling him down.

She was overwhelmed with his weight against her body, his musky, familiar scent now all around and on her, and the force of his hips as they slammed against hers. Meera’s japes about him smothering her flashed through her mind, but his hands were gentle as they covered her shoulders and despite the weight, her chest heaved in and out without difficulty.

Through the haze of the rum and the dimly lit tent, the building tension in her pelvis all but snuck up on her and she moaned as much in shock as pleasure. He kept pumping up and down through it all “Oh, Gods, it’s… close…”

“What are you waiting for? I’m already there,” she cackled, lightly smacking him on the forehead.

“I’m… _Arry… _ohhhh.” He froze mid-stroke as she felt him rapidly pulse inside her and the shuddering of his broad back underneath her hands. She almost giggled at the goofy little grin with the mooney eyes he was sporting, but she was still vibrating from the aftershocks of her own climax.

He slid over to her left side and pulled her into his arms, cradling her. He mumbled something as he rested his mouth on the top of her head. “What?” she asked.

“You’re my family, now,” he said, and tears started pooling in his eyes. She felt them forming in her own, the memories of the cave and his rejection tumbling back. “I’m so sorry for what I said, what I did…”

“Shhh,” she whispered, laying a finger against his lips and kissing his forehead. _He has enslaved _my_ heart. _ “That’s done. We’re here now, and happy. How about we just hold each other and be happy? There was a time when I almost forgot how to be happy… not now, though.”

“All right,” he said, gathering her in so she nestled in his embrace. “I’d like that.”

#

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know how I handled this in the comments. Arya is one of the deepest and most complex characters both in GRRM's books and in my retelling here, and I want to do my best to get that characterization and her spirit correct.
> 
> [EDIT - 7.18.2020: 500 KUDOS. Thank you thank you thank you for all who have left them on this story. I appreciate all of the bookmarkers as well, and especially those who’ve dropped me a line in the comments. All of you have made this special. Thank you so much.
> 
> I'm going to be moving to a new place, so this week might be tight getting a massive amount of writing done. Don't worry, the next chapter is forthcoming. That's when we'll see a crowning, the declaration of the High Kingdom, and some more recruits for the High Kingdom's army show up. I'm looking forward to it.
> 
> [AUTHOR'S NOTE 7.25.2020 - I have completed the move, got the new home office set up, and I'm getting ready to write again. Thanks for your patience.


	44. Westeros Gathers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last of the Army of the High Kingdom arrives as its rulers lay plans for breaking the wheel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone! It took me a little bit because of moving into the new house, but I'm back with another chapter.
> 
> In fact, it's basically part of the next chapter that grew so much I decided it needed to be its own thing. However, you know how I am about not updating often, and how some chapters (and this story) have been growing as we go along. Oh well, such is life.
> 
> Hope you enjoy.

44.

**Jon**

He had planned on finishing up some last-minute preparations for the Great Council before the remainder of the army and their leaders had arrived at Harrenhal. He was surprised to find that his wife had a different idea of what to do before breakfast that morning.

That idea had led both to a private bathhouse located near their guest quarters. There were four baths in this location. Like the baths in the bigger semi-public bathhouse, each of the four could hold six or seven grown men. At this moment, one of the baths held him and the most beautiful woman in Westeros.

It was torture, but in this case, it was a kind that he didn’t mind enduring at all.

He lay on the entry steps to the bath, fully unclothed and spread-eagle on his back, as his wife loomed over him, equally unclothed, and joined at the hip. At her orders, his arms were down on the steps and forbidden to reach for her.

He didn’t know for sure whether Dany resembled the Mother, the Maiden, or some ancient love and fertility manifestation of the Old Gods, but she took his breath away as she straddled him. Her silver-blond hair flew free around her shoulders and half-covering her perfect heart-shaped face. One violet eye stared down at him, and she grinned as she saw him grimace in exquisite agony. She let her fingernails drift across his neck and down his chest and back again.

Her pregnancy was still not obvious to the public with the flowing dresses she’d taken to wearing, but it was obvious to him when she was nude. Her breasts were a fuller pear shape than ever, erect nipples now a dark rather than light pink. There was now a distinct bulge in her lower belly, enough that it was just beginning to rise above her mound of dark gold curls at her center.

He began to reach up to her, to touch her, but a _smack _on the arm by Dany stopped him in mid-move. “No, no, love,” she chided him with a chuckle. “Right now, you need to leave everything to me.” Then, she leaned back.

He felt an overpowering _flex _enclose his member inside her. It almost felt as if he was being sucked up inside her as her inner muscles worked. He’d never felt anything remotely like this before, and it was having an intense effect on him, all thoughts of control flying away. “You… ugh… trying to get me to spend as fast as you can?” he groaned.

“That’s the idea,” she said, now giggling uncontrollably as she reached down between her legs and let her fingers slide over her nub.

His coherent thoughts flew away as he felt Dany… _grasp_ him, for lack of a better term, at an ever-increasing pace. She rocked back and forth on top of him, softly moaning as her fingers flew faster across herself and she threw her head back.

_A goddess,_ he thought as one more clench and sucking sensation finally urged on a shuddering release. Falling limp against the stairs, he could only watch as a few moments later, Dany would pitch forward with a shriek of excitement, head against her chest, as he felt her own pulsing around his cock.

She felt boneless to him as she laid on top of him. Dany lifted her face just enough from his chest to let one violet eye peek out from the tangle of her silver hair. “I take it that met your approval?”

“Aye, lass, it did,” he chuckled. He pulled her up into his arms so their faces met as they slid a couple of steps further into the water. “Tell me, how…?”

“Practice,” she whispered as she snuggled against him. “All it was, was practice. A woman has her secrets.”

“Aye, I guess she does,” he chuckled. His hand drifted down to her belly, as it tended to more often now. “When will h… they start to move, you think?”

“Not too long now, I’d imagine. Likely in the next few weeks.”

He glanced down at the length of their bodies and then met her eyes again, perturbed. “Are they… is this going to bother them?”

That prompted a fit of laughter from Dany as she laid her forehead back down on his chest. “Your cock doesn’t go up all the way into the womb, silly Northern fool,” she cackled, tracing the big red scar above his heart with her fingers before laying a kiss on it, as was her new habit. “We might wake them up at times, but otherwise… they pay no mind to it. We may want to be careful of squishing the sweetlings, of course, but that’s easily managed.”

“Good to know,” he said, tightening his arms around her shoulders.

It was then that they heard two other people giggling down one of the two corridors entering the private baths. He couldn’t tell who they were, but then: “C’mere, you! Lemme at that sweet juicy arse of yours,” he heard a man growl. _Who was that…?_

“_Stop_, you big silly idiot,” a woman’s voice called out, then dissolved into a spasm of giggles. Jon froze in place as he recognized the voice. _Arya…_

“Got you…”

“No, you don’t!” the female voice shrieked, then he heard a shuffle and the _slap slap _of footfalls come closer to the bathhouse. “Jon, who is it…?” Dany asked.

Jon was stunned to see a nude Arya run through the doorway, throw what apparently was a bundle of clothing to the floor, and take a flying leap into the nearby bath. “You’re not catching me… EEEK!”

She screamed halfway into her feet-first leap into the neighboring bath as she finally noticed her brother and goodsister. Trying to twist her body mid-air in a way to somehow preserve her modesty the best way possible, she landed in the steaming water with a sizable _splash_.

Then they saw an equally unclothed Gendry toss his clothes to the floor before making his leap. “You’re not getting away, Arry… FUCK!”

Gendry spotted the visitors just before his feet left the side of the bath. To preserve _his_ modesty, he tried to wrap up in a ball in mid-air, made a full mid-air turn, and then thundered into the water with such a giant _splash _that some of the water made it into Jon and Dany’s bath.

Jon and Dany waded over to the side of the bath nearest to the one Arya and Gendry jumped into. Once they got there, they poked their heads above the side to look over.

A sheepish-looking Arya poked her head over the side. “Um, Jon? Daenerys? I’m sorry… we didn’t realize someone else was in here.”

_They’re married now, _Jon reminded himself as the last bit of sibling protectiveness reared up inside him. _This… this is good news, in its way. _“No worries,” he reassured her. “We have the Unsullied guarding the guest quarters, we didn’t think to have guards set up outside the baths.”

“And likely they would have let my Minister of Whispers enter here, clothed or not,” japed Dany with a raised eyebrow.

“We didn’t want to interrupt anything,” Arya insisted as an equally sheepish Gendry came up from behind and hugged her around the chest.

“That’s all right, actually,” Dany said. “We were just about to leave, anyway. Both Jon and I have people to meet shortly. Feel free to stay if you wish.”

“When are the Stormlanders coming, anyway?” Arya said, frowning slightly but seeming to relax in her new husband’s embrace.

“We’re thinking probably in the next couple days or so,” Jon said. “When…”

“We’ll be ready when they come,” Arya said, nodding. “No worries.”

“Well, we’ll leave you to it, then,” Dany said with a smile. The royal couple waded over to the opposite side of the bath, where they were able to collect their robes, throw them on, and exit the bath with their modesty intact. “Have fun.”

“We will,” Arya said as she and Gendry sank below the edge of their bath out of sight.

As Jon and Dany walked down the halls, he could hear his sister and her new husband dissolving into another fit of giggles.

Dany was unable to resist. “It’s nice to know they’re in such good spirits, Jon.”

“Ugh… I hate to admit it, but you’re right,” he said. “I’m just never going to get used to thinking of my sister having… desires.”

“I know,” she laughed. “I know.”

#

**Daenerys**

She settled into the well-stuffed chair with crimson cushions that Ser Bonifer had made sure was in the modest solar she and Jon had set aside for their use in Harrenhal’s guest quarters.

“Is there anything else that you might need?” Ser Bonifer asked as he hovered over her and made sure her teacup on the side table by her chair was refilled. She’d offered the knight the additional duty of being the new head of her Royalguard with the death of Ser Jorah, and he’d accepted immediately. As a result, he’d learned of her pregnancy and had immediately made sure that no need or care for the expectant mother had gone unanswered even if it had been unasked. For her, it was both an annoyance and comfort all at once.

“Thank you dearly, Ser, but I’m well. They’re outside?” He nodded in return. “Well, all means, invite them in.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

As Missandei and Grey Worm entered her solar, she rose to embrace both her and, to his apparent surprise, him as well. “It’s wonderful to see you both. Please, sit down,” she said, pointing to a pair of similarly stuffed chairs set just across from her.

“It’s wonderful to see you as well, _Mhysa_,” Missandei said. “The babies?” She, along with Jon, had readily accepted her feeling that she was having twins.

“Very well, thank you,” she said, her hands starting to cradle her stomach by what seemed to be instinct. “Grey Worm, how is the training coming with the new recruits?” He and the other Unsullied officers had taken recruits from the former slaves of Dragon’s Bay and outfitted them as infantry in the Unsullied style.

“Quite well,” Grey Worm said, nodding. “They listen to our teaching well, and are learning to fight. There is much for them to learn… but they have… order, they want to learn.”

“I always said that you and your fellow Unsullied became great warriors in spite of your enslavement and mistreatment rather than because of it,” Daenerys said. “Now you and your officers will prove me right. Well, enough of that. Missandei, you said you had some things to discuss with me, personal matters. I’m ready to listen.”

Missandei reached over to her left and took Grey Worm’s right hand into hers. Daenerys was surprised to see him not resist the affectionate gesture. “Grey Worm and I are seeking to get married.”

The announcement both was and wasn’t a surprise for Daenerys. She had been aware of their affections for each other, if not exactly how far they had progressed. It might not be a conventional marriage by either Westerosi or Essoi customs, but she knew that they would be happy. “You do not need my permission for such a thing, my friend.”

“Your blessing, at least?” Missandei responded.

“You have that as easily as you both have my friendship,” Daenerys said. “I gladly give it. What else did you wish to ask?”

Grey Worm glanced at Missandei for a moment and then looked down at his lap. It was Missandei who managed to speak. “For this, we would wish to wait, of course, until you have claimed your crown from the false queen,” she said.

“It is Westeros, My Queen,” Grey Worm said. “The people here have… welcomed us, more than I thought they would. But, it still… it still is not home. It is not where we would wish to stay.”

Daenerys smoothed out some flyaway strands of her hair as she considered his words. “I can understand that,” she said. “Where were you thinking of going?”

“Meereen, most likely,” Missandei said. “There is still much to do there. Plus, it is a little closer to Naath. I would like to travel there some time, to see if any of my family might still live there. Still, we would wait until your task is finished here…”

Daenerys got up from her seat and gestured for them to do the same. As they stood, she took Missandei’s hand in one of hers and Grey Worm’s hand in the other. “I will gladly grant you your wish,” she said. “As you have given me your service as a free man and woman, I give this to you freely. However, there may be an opportunity here, a way you can be of assistance to me and the people we have freed in Dragon’s Bay. Would you be willing to listen to my proposal?”

The two Essoi lovers beamed at each other before turning to their chosen queen. “Always, Your Grace,” Missandei said.

#

**Jon**

He saw Edd lurking on the covered gallery above Flowstone Yard, watching over the brothers in black as they got in their daily fighting practice. “Fine morning, Lord Commander.”

Edd turned to face him as Jon gave him a hug. “Fine morning it is, Your Grace.” He was using a spear as a makeshift walking stick as he was finally beginning to recover from his thigh wound during the Battle of the Long Night. He used the spearpoint to gesture towards the brothers. “In fine shape, all things considered.”

“This all of them?” Jon asked.

“About all that can be mustered,” Edd replied. “Rangers, stewards, builders… they’re all just fighters now.” He regarded Jon with a wary eye. “I’ll admit it, Jon, these men… I’m not sure what their reaction will be.”

“It’s not what they’ll do for me that’s important, Edd,” Jon said with a weary sigh. “It’s what they _have _done for me, what they’ve done for the race of men. I owe them what I owe them. The rest of it… that’s their choice.”

#

He watched as the brothers in black gathered in three ragged rows in front of him on the uneven ground of the Flowstone Yard.

These were the survivors, the men that survived all the terrors of the Long Night and much else. The older brothers, the younger ones that lacked the ability to face their fears, they were dead and gone now. Left behind were these ragged lines of men clad in shabby black, with hardened, wary eyes regarding the man that had once been their Lord Commander. As he stood before the lines with Edd standing silent next to him, leaning on his spear-turned-crutch, he might have still passed as a highborn Night’s Watch officer, with his black woolen trousers and battered black boots dating from his time in the Watch. The only sign of his changed status was the black tunic he wore with the three-headed Targaryen sigil splashed across his chest. Now all their eyes were on him. _Time to talk._

“The histories have said that when my ancestor, Aegon I Targaryen, came to conquer Westeros, the brothers in black numbered 10,000,” he began. “Seven years ago, when I came to the Watch, it had shrunk to 1,000 brothers. Today, as you train here, your Lord Commander tells me there are now thirty and a hundred men ready to muster.

“Some of you, such as your Lord Commander, I would consider my friends,” he continued. “Some of you might have been happy to see Ser Allister and his mutineers… overthrow my command. That does not matter now. What matters is what you have done, what you have experienced. All of you have faced horrors beyond even the wildest imaginations among you. You have fought against the darkness itself and helped defeat it, being the true shields of the realms of men. Your deeds match up to or exceed those of any brothers in black of the past.

“Such service, above and beyond even your vows, deserves reward,” he continued. “I intend to give you this reward today, without any hesitation, without any stipulation. However, I also wish to make you… a proposal. Not an order, but a request. We have helped to protect this realm of men, but that is not enough for me. As my wife, the queen, has said, the old wheel of Westeros, the old ways of things that have led to disorder, unfairness, and strife – we wish to break that wheel. We wish to make a better world than what we were born in, to give to future generations.

“The Night’s Watch as it now exists no longer has a true purpose, or its purpose is outdated,” he concluded. “It will not exist as it has. However, I wish to create something to help protect this new world I wish to help build. And, I want your help in doing it.”

#

Two days after he addressed the Night’s Watch, Jon was seated in Hunter’s Hall alongside Dany, awaiting another group of visitors. They both sat in high sturdy wooden chairs that had been carved for the benefit of the castle’s lord and lady back in the days when House Whent ruled in Harrenhal.

_Dany will likely make _me _sit on the Iron Throne when the time comes, _he thought. _What, is she going to have to stand next to me at these official functions? No, perhaps more wheel-breaking is what is needed…_

Several of their advisors were seated at chairs perpendicular to them down the hall, including Missandei, Grey Worm, and Ser Davos on one side, and Bran, Samwell, and Archmaester Ambrose on the other. Tyrion stood to the left of Dany.

Ser Bonifer opened the main doors to the hall and strode over to the royal couple. The largest hall in the castle, the Hundred Hearths Hall, was being readied for the Great Council, while they used this smaller hall for their meetings. Jon tried to hide his amusement that even with this “smaller” hall, it took Ser Bonifer almost a minute to make his way from one end of the hall to the other.

“Your Graces,” he said with a stiff bow. “The representatives from both Dorne and the Stormlands are here to meet with you.”

“Very well,” Dany said. “We will speak with the Dornish delegation first, then those from the Stormlands.” Ser Bonifer bowed again before heading off to the main doors.

He returned with four people following his footsteps. After Missandei announced Jon and Dany’s name and titles, Ser Bonifer turned to the new guests. “Your Graces, may I present Princess Sarella Sand, eldest surviving daughter of Prince Oberyn Martell and Princess Ellaria Sand, her sister, Lady Elia Sand, the head of House Dayne, Lord Edric Dayne, who is betrothed to Lady Elia, and the head of House Yronwood, The Bloodroyal, Ser Anders Yronwood.”

Jon examined them. Sarella, who seemed somewhere in her mid-twenties, was tall for a woman, with light-brown skin and almond brown eyes. She was dressed more like a Dornish man than woman, with tan trousers and leather riding boots, a long-sleeved burnt orange tunic, and brown leather vest. Her black hair was cut short to her head, in a way that reminded him of Arya’s stories of passing as a young boy after Father’s death. Elia was slightly younger and shorter than her sister and had a similarly shaped face, but her black hair was in a long intricate braid over her right shoulder. While she dressed in a more conventional feminine outfit of a light mustard-yellow dress with an orange sash around her waist, she carried a steel-tipped lance at her side.

Both men by their sides were dressed in light plate armor of Dornish origin. Lord Edric, who stood close to Lady Elia, was about her height, with pale blond hair and dark blue eyes that were nearly violet in color. He wore a purple cloak over his shoulders with the falling star sigil of his house. Ser Anders was a generation older than his companions and towered over them all as he stood behind them. Blond, blue-eyed, and clean shaven, he had a burly but not overweight physique.

It was Princess Sarella who finally broke the silence, kneeling in front of the royal couple who got up from their chairs. “Your Graces, I come before you and this Great Council to reaffirm my family’s alliance with the true rulers of Westeros,” she said in a more measured version of the lilting Dornish accent. “Free Dorne is at your command.”

“Thank you, Princess,” Dany said. “Also, I wish to convey my sincere condolences for the loss of your mother and elder sisters. I cannot begin to contemplate it.”

“I truly appreciate your words, Your Grace…” she said, rising to her feet and meeting the eyes of Tyrion. “My Queen, would you grant me just a moment…?”

Puzzled, Dany nevertheless nodded in return. “Of course.”

Sarella approached the Queen’s Hand. “You are Tyrion Lannister, my lord?”

The Hand kept his face neutral as the young Dornishwoman approached him. “I am, Princess.”

Tyrion and all but the Dornish could not hide their shock as Sarella kneeled before the shorter man and bowed so her head was at Tyrion’s eye level. “My lord, on behalf of my family, I wish to apologize for the actions of my family regarding your niece. Lady Myrcella Baratheon was an innocent in this war, and her death was both senseless and needless. I am truly sorry for my mother’s actions.”

Sarella looked up as she noticed Tyrion laying a hand on her shoulder. “To paraphrase a saying of both our king and queen, a child is not responsible for the deeds of their parents or siblings,” he said in a tight voice. “You need not apologize on their behalf; their final judgment will now happen in the next life. However, what you have expressed here… I do appreciate your sentiments,” he finished as he let his hand fall away.

“Princess Sarella? How many soldiers have you brought to Harrenhal?” Jon said as she got up from the floor.

She turned back to Ser Anders. “We have 9,000 infantry and knights,” the man who was apparently the Dornish war leader said in a clear, rumbling voice that matched his physique. “The sea battle with the Ironborn during which Princess Ellaria was captured lost us considerable men. Some Dornish houses have pledged to Cersei Lannister, but those are fewer than our number, made up of smaller houses. Many of the Dornish lords have decided to stay in their keeps and ride out the fight rather than choose a side. In addition, we are keeping a good portion of our trusted soldiers and officers in Sunspear for the protection of the Princess' three youngest sisters.”

“With all due respect to you, Your Graces, we have lost our mother and three eldest sisters to this war,” Lady Elia said as she leaned on her lance. “Our priority is to ensure the safety of our three younger sisters. None of them has yet attained their majority… this is not their fight.”

“I can certainly understand that, under the circumstances,” Daenerys said, coming to Sarella. “From what I’ve been told, you have been in Oldtown for the past several years, correct?”

She nodded. “I’d not played much if any part in my family’s dealings since I came of age. However, when I learned of my mother and sisters’ deaths, I returned to Sunspear. Whatever I do not know of warfare, I do know my duty to my family.”

“I had been in Starfall as part of my mother’s efforts to betroth me to Lord Edric, to bolster my family’s alliances,” Elia added. “After our mother and sister’s deaths, Sarella joined us at Starfall. We determined that we were going to hold to our family’s alliance.”

“I was curious, Princess Sarella,” Daenerys said, “You said that you were in Oldtown for many years. What were you there for?”

Sarella turned to Samwell. “Perhaps you know, Lord Tarly,” she said. “I remember seeing you there at the Citadel – studying to be a maester? It appears duty has called you as well.”

Samwell’s eyes narrowed as he examined her, then recognition suddenly dawned. “You were there, at the Citadel,” he said. “You were dressed as a young man, using a different name.”

“I did.”

“Why did you disguise yourself as a man?” Daenerys asked.

“Women are not allowed to serve as maesters, or study at the Citadel,” a scowling Archmaester Embrose said, standing up.

He soon sat down as he came under the cool, steely gaze of the queen. “That seems to be an… _unenlightened_ point of view,” she said. “We’ll discuss that subject later, but just out of curiosity, what subjects were you studying there?”

Sarella put her hand to her chin in thought for a moment. “Many things, Your Grace, but when I received the news of my mother, I was reading about the construction of the Valyrian Roads in the Freehold. Very fascinating description of their building.”

“Indeed? We’ll have to talk about what you learned…”

As they briefly spoke, Lord Edric turned to Jon. “Your Grace,” he said. “Not that I hold it against you, since you weren’t born yet, but apparently, your uncle slayed my uncle in combat during Robert’s Rebellion.”

“My… Northern father, I call him, although he was my uncle by blood,” Jon said, nodding. “Actually, I believe I was born just when that happened. He had help, as well.”

“Indeed,” Edric said. “From what your Hand told us… the situation must have been complicated for you.”

“Including the fact that I didn’t learn of those things until now,” Jon said. “Regardless, I’m glad you came here… Ned, your friends call you?” He extended his hand to the Dornishman.

Edric accepted the handshake. “Aye, like your… Northern father, as you said. Your Grace… I’m not sure what you learned up North about the Dornish, but the sayings that go around about us being fierce, fiery… that’s true to a point, but I want to let you know we look forward to the fighting ending. This war has worn down all of us, especially Elia’s family.”

“Trust me, I’ve been fighting ever since I joined the Watch seven years past,” Jon said, laying his other hand on Edric’s elbow. “For the Queen and myself, ending the fighting is what we are seeking.”

“That’s something that Dorne can get behind.”

“…my apologies, Your Graces, but we have the Stormlands delegation waiting outside,” Tyrion stage-whispered to Dany.

Deep in conversation with Sarella, Dany caught herself by surprise in mid-sentence. “Princess, we have another delegation to meet with right now, but I would like to continue this conversation when we can,” she said. “Maester Tothmure will see to your guest quarters.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Your Grace,” Sarella said with another bow, and with a few more salutations, the Dornish delegation took their leave.

Sers Bonifer and Davos flanked the trio of men entering Hunter Hall to meet with Jon and Dany. All three were in full plate armor, swords by their sides, and shared an expression that indicated that they were ready to dispense with ceremony and get down to business. What they thought of the information Ser Davos had given them about Jon and Dany, as well as the fact that they were to have a new lord and lady of the Stormlands, he could not tell. Despite this, however, they stood without any visible distaste as Missandei introduced the royal couple.

When she was done, Davos said, “Your Graces, I present Arstan Selmy, Lord of Harvest Hall and head of House Selmy, Ser Marran Dondarrion, Lord of Blackhaven and head of House Dondarrion, and Selwyn Tarth, Lord of Tarth and head of the house of the same name.”

Arstan Selmy resembled Dany’s description of Ser Barristan, except he was slightly older than Jon: tall, well-proportioned, with ice-blue eyes and shoulder-length hair that was blonde rather than silver. Ser Marran was stocky by comparison, with wooly black hair cut close to his head but the same blue eyes as his cousin, although he was anywhere from ten to twenty name days younger. Selwyn Tarth might have been the tallest human Jon had ever seen in his life. If his daughter was six feet tall, the man known as the Evenstar might have been almost a foot taller. He looked to be around sixty name days, erect and proud, clean-shaven with a head of short hair somewhere in color between straw and silver. His daughter’s sapphire eyes appraised the royal couple as they approached.

“Your Graces,” Lord Arstan said after kneeling before them, “We come to you with almost 5,000 men to press your claim to the Iron Throne and bring peace to our lands. I regret we could not provide more to you, but the recent wars have left our lands depleted, and sadly some of the Stormlands lords have pledged themselves to Lord Wylliam Trant and his claim to the Stormlands on behalf of the Lannister pretender.”

“Lord Selmy, thank you for your assistance,” Dany said, approaching him first. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you. Your great-uncle was not just the head of my Queensguard, but a wise adviser and a true friend. I still miss him to this day.”

“My thanks, Your Grace,” he responded. “If I may ask, what became of my uncle’s remains?”

“We… buried them in a place of honor, inside the Great Pyramid of Meereen,” she replied. She hastily added, “If you would wish to have them returned to your home, of course…”

“That won’t be necessary, Your Grace,” Arstan replied. “I’m glad that you choose to honor him so. And besides, it will give me the excuse to make a pilgrimage to Meereen someday.”

It was Jon who first approached Ser Marran. “A pleasure to meet you, Ser,” he said. “Your cousin helped save my brother’s life a couple months ago,” nodding toward Bran on the side.

Ser Marran seemed unsure of what to say at first, but then grunted, “I’m sure he considered it his duty.”

“Of course, but I’m still thankful, regardless.” He then went to Lord Selwyn. “My lord, it is good to finally meet you. Your daughter has done great service not only for the queen and myself, but my sisters and… their mother.” 

Selwyn’s bow barely came down to the same level as the top of Jon’s head. “I’m glad that she has served you well,” he said. “To be in service to a great lord or king, that was something that she long dreamed of as a girl. It’s a pleasure to meet you as well. I have met a few dragons in my time, yet you are the first secret dragon I have met.”

“Imagine when I found out,” Jon quipped.

“Indeed. Queen Daenerys, a pleasure to meet you as well,” Lord Selwyn said, exchanging pleasantries with Dany.

“Your Graces, I mean no disrespect, but I was wondering when we were supposed to meet this new Baratheon who is allegedly to be our new ruler in the Stormlands?” Ser Marran choked out, bringing all the conversations in the hall to a halt.

Lord Selwyn immediately spoke up. “Ah, yes, forgive my fellow lord, Your Graces,” he commented, laying a hand on Ser Marran’s shoulder. “Not only he, but several other of our number, are somewhat anxious to find out more about this bastard of K…Lord Robert’s. I know you have legitimized him,” he added, holding both hands up in reassurance, “and Ser Davos has attested to his legitimacy as well as the testimony of Lord Stannis. However, it is still an uncommon thing.”

“With all of Lord Robert and Lady Cersei’s children now dead, it’s perfectly reasonable for a bastard to have claim on the Stormlands and Storm’s End,” Lord Arstan said. “Even after Cersei Lannister’s… massacre of her late husband’s bastards, considering he made the eight, it’s not a surprise a couple of them might have survived.”

“Making the eight?” Dany asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Er… begging your pardon… again, Your Grace,” Ser Marran ventured, “but the saying refers to a man who has… well… _been with _a woman from each of the Seven…”

“Ah, yes, Ser Marran, I’m… aware of Robert Baratheon’s… appetites,” Dany said, rescuing the knight from further awkwardness.

“Lord Gendry has served the queen and myself well, both in our fight against the Others and since then,” Jon said. “He’s become a friend to me, and I believe he is a man you can trust.”

“Is he unmarried?” Lord Arstan said. “Any marriage pact might give us some further leverage either against the Stormlanders sworn to Trant or Cersei’s other allies.”

“Actually, he is newly married, and he and his wife will serve as high lord and lady of the Stormlands,” Dany said. “My Hand, I think it is time for these men to meet them.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Tyrion said with a bow, then headed off to a nearby corridor where the new Stormlands couple was waiting.

“It’ll be strange if the boy doesn’t even look like him,” Jon overheard Ser Marran muttering to Lord Selwyn.

“Well, that might be a possibility… Seven Hells, it’s like a ghost arrived,” Lord Selwyn whispered.

Arya and Gendry eventually came into view. Brow furrowed, Gendry was wearing his full armor with a small black inlaid bulls-head and hammers sigil above the left part of his breastplate. He carried the huge two-handed war hammer he’d finished crafting at Harrenhal across his back.

A scowling Arya wore brand new black leather trousers and boots, both well-fit to her legs. The jarring sight was her yellow tunic that bore the new Baratheon sigil in black across her chest. _That’s not something that I’m getting used to soon, _he thought, although she was wearing her direwolf-head torc necklace as well. She was fully armed, with Needle and Catspaw on either hip and her twin-bladed staff – now equipped with steel rather than dragonglass blades – strapped across her back.

“My lords,” Jon said, “may I present the High Lord and Lady of the Stormlands and the Lord and Lady of Storm’s End, Lord Gendry Baratheon and Lady Arya Stark Baratheon.” He then introduced the lords in turn to them.

Lord Selwyn had to noticeably bend down to meet Arya’s eyes. “I know of you, my lady,” he said. “You’re Lord Eddard’s youngest girl, are you not?”

“I am,” she said, the mention of her father bringing a sad smile to her face.

“My daughter talked of you to me in her most recent letters. She… spoke highly of you.”

“I think quite highly of her, as well,” Arya replied. “She helped save my sister’s life, among other things.”

Ser Marran stared up at Gendry, the tallest man in the room except for the Evenstar. “You have his height, at least, my lord,” he muttered at first. “Did you ever know your father?”

“No, I didn’t,” Gendry replied, keeping calm. “Didn’t know my mu… mother much better either.”

“When did you find out who your father was?” Lord Selwyn asked.

“When a Red Witch brought me to meet Stannis Baratheon. It was after my father’s death. They’re both gone, but Ser Davos was there and can speak to it.”

“He has, at that,” Lord Arstan said. He looked over Gendry’s armor. “That suit is high quality,” he continued. “Did your king gift that for you?”

“Made it myself, to be honest.”

“No, you didn’t,” Arstan replied, disbelieving, and shaking his head. “I haven’t seen that quality of armor in Westeros except from the Street of Steel in King’s Landing.”

“That makes sense, then,” Gendry said, hands on his hips now and smiling. “That’s where I learned to blacksmith. Tobho Mott was my former master.”

“I remember Mott’s work, some fine stuff from him,” Lord Selwyn said. “That hammer of yours your work, too? Trying to emulate your father?”

“I know swinging a hammer more than swinging a sword,” Gendry answered.

Lord Selwyn’s eyes widened a fraction, but he kept any other reaction to himself. “Fair point,” he replied.

Ser Marran turned his attention to Arya. “So, what’s your story, my lady?” he asked. “Your… brother, cousin, whichever, decided he needed a stronger hold on the Stormlands?”

Jon was about to speak up before his sister beat him to it. “My _brother_ had nothing to do with my betrothement. It was my idea.”

“Pardon me, my lady, but I had the impression from Brienne that you were not that interested in political matters.”

“My marriage is not a political matter, Lord Tarth. Gendry and I have been friends since my father’s death… I suppose I’ve always had a taste for strong men,” she chuckled as she took Gendry’s hand in hers. Jon did his best to suppress his slight dread at her words as the room was silent for a moment.

Lord Arstan examimed both the badge on Gendry’s chestplate and Arya’s tunic. “Is that the new sigil for your house?” he chuckled.

“My idea,” Arya said. “I thought it suited him more. Besides, his father and uncle toyed around with the family sigil as well, didn’t they?”

“We also thought it wasn’t likely they kept any of the old banners hanging around, considering,” Gendry added.

“You’re right at that,” Arstan chuckled as he nodded. “I received word from some of the craftsmen at Storm’s End that the Lannister woman had all the old Baratheon banners burnt after King Tommen’s death. They put up Lannister banners at first, but now the hanged man of House Trant flies there as well.”

“We’ll have to remedy that after Cersei’s gone,” Arya said.

“_We?_” Ser Marran said, looking down at her. “What, you planning on going off to war instead of your lord husband?”

“We fight together,” Arya replied. “Gendry’s not been trained as a soldier like most of you, but he’s a fighter, trust me. And _I’ve _been trained by everyone… and no-one as well. What, you thought these weapons were for show?” she chuckled.

“_Any _man or woman can wear whatever weapons he or she wants, my lady, but the test is whether they can use them or not. That’s…”

Ser Marran and everyone else in the hall were stunned into silence as they took in the scene in front of them. As Ser Marran was in mid-sentence, in less than a second Arya had drawn Needle with her left hand and with her right snatched Ser Marran’s sword right from its scabbard at the knight’s side. She now stood in front of Ser Marran, Needle’s point at the right side of the knight’s neck while she held his sword behind her back. “That’s a good point, Ser,” she said with an abundance of calm. “One does need to know how to wield the weapons they carry.”

Jon didn’t trust himself to betray any of his amusement, so he let Dany take the lead in calming tensions. “Goodsister, it wouldn’t do to get into a fight with those who choose to be our allies,” she said, trying to soothe her more than scold.

“Fight? Your Grace, this is not even a disagreement. A demonstration, at best,” Arya replied, sounding as court-formal as she ever had. In one motion, she’d sheathed Needle and now offered Ser Marran his sword back to him hilt-first. “If Ser Marran is interested in a spar, I’ll likely be training in Flowstone Yard in the morning.”

Suitably chastened and looking as his new high lady with a less casual eye, Ser Marran accepted and sheathed his sword. “Thank you for the offer, My Lady, although whether I will be able to accept as of yet, I do not know.”

“My daughter might have understated your fighting skills, Lady Arya,” Lord Selwyn said. He turned to Jon and Daenerys. “I think we can speak for the other Stormlands lords here and say that we accept your decision and the rule of Lord and Lady Baratheon.” With that, he knelt before the new High Lord and Lady of the Stormlands, followed by the others.

“Uh… Thank you,” Gendry half-stammered, catching an impatient glare from Arya. “We appreciate your support,” as he gestured for them to stand. Jon was a bit bemused by both Arya and Gendry’s unease at others bending the knee toward them.

“Father?”

Heads turned in the direction of the voice at the far end of the hallway. Ser Brienne stood there, framed by the double doors. She was dressed in a simple light blue fighting tunic and light brown trousers. By the sheen of sweat on her forehead and cheeks, it appeared that she had just come from a training session.

Lord Tarth turned around to face her. “Daughter,” he said with a warm smile. “Good to see you again. It’s been a while.”

Jon and the other observers were startled to see the often serious and sometimes fierce female knight dash over to where Lord Selwyn stood the same as any young girl might after a reunion with a long-absent father. There was something of a _crunch_ as Brienne barrled into the armored form of her father and forced him to take a step back to steady himself.

He looked down at her as she laid her head against his breastplate. “You look well and in good health, Brienne,” he said softly.

She raised her head as she noticed the surprised stares of most of those in attendance. Arya seemed particularly moved – _likely thinking of Father, _Jon thought. “Thank you, you do as well.”

“As well as an old man like myself can manage nowadays,” Lord Tarth chuckled.

She looked around nervously, both aware she might be breaching some royal protocol yet too anxious to communicate with her father to be excessively concerned. “I was in the practice yard when you came, so I didn’t see you…”

“Do not concern yourself, Daughter, I’m sure you have your duties,” he said. “Brienne… I need to speak with someone briefly, but I would love to meet with you afterward for a proper reunion.”

“If I may, L… Ser Brienne,” Tyrion chimed in from behind them, “Ser Davos was planning on seeing Lord Selwyn and his fellow lords to their guest quarters. If you would like to come with them, I’ll make sure your father will join you shortly.”

Brienne turned to her father. “It’s all right,” he said to her. “I won’t be long. It’s good to see you.”

Relieved, she nodded to him. “You too, Father.” With that, she accompanied Ser Davos and her fellow Stormlanders out of the hall.

As they left, Jon spoke up, “So, Lord Selwyn, did you need to speak to the queen, myself…?”

“Actually, Your Grace, I was hoping to have a word with your lady sister for a moment,” he replied, nodding toward Arya.

Jon stole a look at Arya. “Of course, my lord, I have some time.”

“Very well,” Jon said.

Dany took that moment to snag Jon's arm. “If you’ll excuse me, my lord, the king and myself have to oversee the remainder of the preparations for the great council. It was a pleasure to meet you, Lord Selwyn.”

“And I as well, Your Grace,” he replied.

As the royal couple made their departure, Dany whispered to him, “Wonder what he had to ask Arya?”

“Likely something involving his daughter,” Jon said. “They’ve been friendly since Arya came back to Winterfell. The man hasn’t seen her in years – he’s likely trying to find out what’s become of her.”

“True,” Dany replied.

#

**Arya**

As they entered the courtyard outside Hunter’s Hall, Arya turned to Lord Selwyn as they walked. “I’m glad I’ve had the chance to finally meet you, my lord, even though the occasion… might not have been fully proper.”

“You mean that parlor trick you befuddled Ser Marran with?” he said, chuckling. “Gave me flashbacks of my life ten years previous. Mind you, Brienne was more of a girl who knocked someone on their arse if they crossed her rather than picking their pockets, but it was the same principle.”

“She speaks highly of you, my lord. She truly appreciated you training her in the art of combat, even though she said your fellow lords considered you quite mad for it.”

“Oh, they did – still do, as a matter of fact.” He turned back to Arya and they eventually stopped in the shadow of the Wailing Tower. “I’m now wondering if your father had similar sentiments.”

She sighed. “He was unsure of my interest, hoping perhaps I would tame my wild ways at first. Eventually, just before he died, he consented for me to learn swordsmanship from Syrio Forel, the former First Sword of Braavos. He taught me much in the short time we knew each other, but I have had more teachers since then, your daughter included.”

“Good to know she is trying to pass on her knowledge.” He looked around to make sure there was no one around close enough to overhear them. “My lady, I apologize if this puts you in an awkward position, but I wish to know your opinion of Ser Jaime Lannister.”

_There it is, _she thought. _If she’s not admitted it, she has hinted enough about it in her letters or he heard enough idle gossip to sense something is going on._

She took a few moments before collecting her thoughts before speaking. “He _is _the brother of my family’s greatest enemy, but also of the man advising my brother and goodsister,” she began. “He apparently fathered Cersei Lannister’s children, especially since none of them looked anything like my now-husband, and finding out about that is partly why my father is dead. His family killed my parents, brother, and goodsister, but Ser Jaime admittedly had nothing to do with those crimes. I will say that since he came to Winterfell with my uncle and a Riverlands army in tow, whenever he has given his word, he has kept it.”

He looked her over from head to foot. “How old are you now, my lady?”

“Eight and ten name days, my lord.”

“How much would you say that you know about love, Lady Arya?”

The question set her back for a moment. “To be honest, not much,” she admitted. “For one, I never thought I would fall in love, but yet I did.”

“That’s a far more common occurrence that you might think, my lady,” he said. “I’ve seen one and sixty namedays myself. During that time, I have seen young knights cook up many a fancy scheme to win the heart of a young maiden, many well-tried, a few unique. I have to admit, however, _knighting _a maiden to win her heart… that has to be a first, yes?”

She thought for a moment. “It makes me think Ser Jaime knew her heart more than other men,” she replied.

The lord of Tarth leaned back and let out a sigh that seemed to pass all the way through him. “I… I guess so,” he said, gesturing helplessly. “Has she said anything of it to you?”

“To be honest, we don’t speak much of romantic things, although I’ve guessed at their affections,” she responded. “She’s not confided in me in those regards, and as for _my_ source of romantic advice, I usually go to my goodsister the queen.”

“I see. Well, my lady, I have taken up too much of your time and you generous with your knowledge of my daughter. I’ll take my leave, but I’m sure we will talk again.”

“Ser Davos, his family, and some of the other Stormlanders have been very generous in helping Gendry and myself learn more of their home. If it would not impose on you, my lord, I would like to ask the same of you sometime.”

“You have but to ask for it, my lady. Good afternoon to you.”

_Oh, Sansa will be amused to no end by this, _she thought as he left.

#

**Theon**

He took another look through his long Myrish Eye at the walls of King’s Landing as they approached the northern banks of the Blackwater Rush a half mile from the capital.

_You think you are clever, Uncle, _he thought to himself as he scoured the tops of the walls and towers of King’s Landing one last time. _You _are_ daring, surely. But I know how you think and still have a sharp enough eye. And, perhaps, I’m clever enough to pull off a plan of my own._

Roark, the captain of the ship he now sailed on, a new oversized longboat Theon had named the _Sansa_, stared back at the walls with a sense of dread. “They’re going to catch onto us at any minute,” he said in a not quite steady voice.

“Hardly. You should look through this thing. Half the walls are unmanned, and half those men are asleep,” he scoffed. In addition, it was early morning before dawn and Theon’s Ironborn ships were sailing with plain black sails almost impossible to see in the dark.“Wonder how much food they have there… Caemon, the ravens ready to send?”

“How many are we sending?” the other captain asked.

“Set aside one or two if we have to send an emergency message, but the rest go,” he barked. “Where are those riders?”

“Here, Admiral, Mander and Mauck,” Roark said, presenting two stringy and ragged Ironborn around Theon’s age. However, Roark said the men were the best horsemen amongst his crews.

“You understand what you are to do?” Theon said.

Mander, the shorter of the two, answered. “You need us to ride when we get to land,” he said.

Nodding, Theon handed identical messages to both men. “You have the horses you need?”

“Six between us, Admiral,” Mander replied. “We’ll ride two and haul the rest along for fresh mounts.”

“Good.” He took another glance at the nearby shore to make sure no stragglers from the King’s Landing host were around as witnesses. “Those messages need to get to the Dragon Queen and King Jon at Harrenhal _at all costs. _Do you understand my meaning?” he barked.

“We do, Lord Admiral.”

Theon pulled out a map, using the only torch alight on the boat to help illuminate its surface as he waved at Mander to come to him. “We will be landing here,” he said, pointing at a spot on the Blackwater Rush. “My uncle’s fleet will be going up here, and the land forces likely will follow him most of the way. The best chance you have of avoiding him is to travel due north by northeast, say about five miles,” he explained as he drew a line on the map with his stylus. “Then, change your direction to north by northwest, roughly parallel to the Kingsroad. It’s your best chance of beating them there,” he concluded, handing the map to Mander.

He tucked it into his coat. “Understood, My Lord.”

They felt the ship slide to a halt as it sat parallel to the shore of the Blackwater Rush. Theon’s crew readied a gangplank for the two men to ride their horses over the side as the admiral came to watch.

“Remember, at _all_ costs,” Theon intoned.

Both men bowed to him. “Understood, Lord Theon,” Mander said, and they and their horses went over the side. After he was sure all of them were safely ashore and galloping away, he ordered Roark, “cast off. Ahead upstream slow; I don’t want my uncle to think I’m any better than those lazy bastards back in King’s Landing.”

“Yes, Admiral.”

Theon walked to the bow of his ship and glanced through his Myrish Eye one more time, fixing on what he knew were the ghostly and faded outlines of his uncle’s ships further upstream. _Robb, I know I failed you,_ he thought. _I failed Bran and Rickon, but thank the Gods, not Sansa. Now, I need to make sure I don’t fail Jon. I need to prove he was right to have faith in me. No matter what it takes._

#

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this was a good one for you - it was a little mix of a few things, I think. Let me know what you thought in the comments - I'm nearly guaranteed to respond.
> 
> We got to meet the Dornish, and I hope my presentation of them didn't suck as much as 2D's effort.
> 
> 250K words? Never imagined I'd write anything that big, and there's more to come.
> 
> Next chapter, we'll see the Great Council, which will be Jon and Dany letting their allies know what is up and what the new world order will be like. Hopefully there are some good surprises there for you as well.
> 
> Take care, everyone.


	45. High King and Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The High Kingdom of Westeros and New Valyria is declared. Jon and Daenerys lay out the new order of things to the lords of Westeros.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone. This was a tough chapter to get through and spell out. There was a bit of speechifying and pageantry, which I hope doesn't drag. Anyway, enjoy.

45.

**Daenerys**

She tried to think of when she felt so much nervous, anticipatory energy inside herself. There had been the terror of her first wedding to Drogo, the wonder of her approach and landing at Dragonstone, the hopeful anticipation of her nighttime wedding to Jon, and finally the growing dread as she and he waited for the Other’s to arrive at Winterfell.

However, this was something different altogether. What was about to happen would have a far-reaching effect not just on her and her new family, but on perhaps millions of people that she had never met and might never meet in her lifetime. _So much depends on us. So _many _depend on us now. If Jon and I are remembered for anything, it will be for what happens today._

Daenerys was in a side passageway connected to the Hall of the Hundred Hearths, the largest of several meeting and feasting halls in the massive Harrenhal castle. She was waiting for all the highborns who had come to pledge themselves to her and Jon to assemble in the massive hall. _I’m glad I’ve got a chance to catch my breath. Establishing a new order of things is no small feat._

For a moment, her right hand drifted to her stomach. _I’ll have to remember all of this to tell both of you later,_ she thought. _We’re making this world for you both as much as anyone else. _She was certain that it was two babes growing inside her; she was almost positive it was a boy and girl, but not sure. She had already picked out their names, but avoided calling her babes by their names even in her head. Whether it be tempting fate or looking too far ahead, she didn’t want to risk anything regarding them. _Maybe when they start moving… I’m glad we’re letting everyone know now, though. I’m going to look too… suspicious in a few weeks._

With both the length of the festivities that day and her condition, she had dressed both sensibly yet with an eye to make an impression. With the hearths in the hall in full blaze and the assembled crowd generating its own heat, she felt comfortable enough to wear a flowing sleeveless crimson dress of silk and velvet, loose enough to both camouflage and not constrict her modest but growing belly. Soft crimson slippers would be easy on her feet. For a final touch, she wore a silver pin with the Targaryen sigil just below the left strap of her dress.

“Does the hall really have a hundred hearths? It seems like it,” a wide-eyed Missandei asked as she took a brief glance around a curtain into the wider hall. Even someone like her who’d lived in Dragonstone and the Great Pyramid of Meereen was impressed with the castle grounds that dwarfed that of Winterfell.

“Only five and thirty, to be honest,” admitted Sansa. She and Missandei had accepted the queen’s request that they keep her company before the meeting. Both would play their own part in what was to come.

“From what I saw, it appears to be big enough that we could host the entirety of the Unsullied in the hall with room to spare,” Daenerys said.

“And feed them. The kitchens here are the size of Wintefell’s Great Hall.” Sansa shook her head. “Wastefulness.”

Dany flashed a wry grin at her, glad for something to break the tension. “You disapprove of the facilities, Goodsister?”

“It will do for _our_ purposes today, mind, but as a proper castle or a home for a noble house, it leaves much to be desired,” Sansa said with a shudder. “Most of this place is in decay. It is far too massive to maintain properly without a massive infusion of wealth, as fertile as the lands around here are. No wonder Arya preferred to get married on that island.”

“Jon said the household staff have told him a similar tale,” Daenerys said. “It sounds like you’ve given the matter plenty of thought.”

“None to this place – giving it to one of our loyal lords would be more punishment than reward. No, seeing this place the way it is makes me determined that Winterfell not suffer the same fate.”

“My Lady, from what I saw, Winterfell managed to escape the Battle of the Long Night without severe damage, except to some of the gates and the western wall,” Missandei said.

“There’s more to it than the last battle, though,” Sansa replied. “Both Winterfell and the winter town suffered damage from the Ironborn taking over, the Boltons taking it from them, and then us taking back from the Boltons. The First Keep, the Broken Tower, and the sept my father built for my mother are in disrepair after years of neglect, centuries in some cases.

“Joren and I began a total renovation of the castle and the winter town before I left,” she continued. “The First Keep alone could be so valuable. We could build guest chambers for you and Jon and your family when you come up to visit, Your Gra… Daenerys.”

“That’s very sweet of you, Sansa, but go ahead and use it for whatever would best serve your household,” Daenerys said, patting her on the arm.

“Joren’s threatened that he’ll start rebuilding some of the beams of the homes in the winter town himself by the time I get back home,” Sansa said. “He apparently has some talent for carpentry, he’s told me.”

“You sound very happy with him,” Missandei said.

Sansa had a wry laugh at that. “When I was a young girl, Missandei, my mother plotted which of the great southren lords I would marry and despaired of finding my sister a proper husband. She was anxious over my bethrothal to Joffrey but realized the advantage it would give our house. Now I am the head of _our_ house, married to a bastard Northern knight, and my sister will soon be the co-ruler of one of the kingdoms of Westeros through marriage to a _former _bastard. I’m not sure my mother would know what to make of it, to be honest. It would have been nice to find out.”

As Sansa looked to the ground, Daenerys squeezed her arm in a show of support. “I’m sure she would be proud of all of you.”

Sansa nodded and returned a warm smile to her goodsister. “Thank you.”

They heard footsteps down the passage. Daenerys turned to see her husband approaching.

Jon looked as much as a king as he’d ever had to her. His black tunic, one of several similar ones he had, boasted a smaller Targaryen sigil over his left breast. His black woolen trousers with red velvet trim had extra leather reinforcement in the crutch to help facilitate riding, along with brand new black leather boots reaching up just below his knees and black leather gloves going well up his forearms. His black cloak was like hers. He was accompanied by a mixed honor guard of Unsullied, Stark bannermen, and Freefolk, led on either side by Grey Worm and Tormund.

“Are you ready for today, My King?” she said as he stopped in front of her.

“Not sure anyone can truly be ready for an event like this, My Queen,” Jon said. “I’m not sure even you’re fully prepared.”

“Maybe not, but we go forward anyway,” she said as her hand brushed his shoulder.

He leaned over to sneak a quick kiss with her. “True.”

“You never played at being a king, growing up in that massive castle of yours?” Tormund knew he was one of the few who could get away with teasing the High King and he loved taking advantage.

Jon shook his head in disbelief. “I had many fantasies that I played out as a child, but this wasn’t close to being any of them.”

“The whole thing amuses _me_ to no end, of course. I’m surprised you let me anywhere near this ceremony, to be honest.”

“Why, Tormund Gianstsbane, who else would remind me that I’m not a god?”

Their eyes met and both met burst into fits of laughter, which prompted a raised eyebrow and inquiring stare from her. “How _did _he remind you of that, Jon?”

Jon finally managed to suppress his laughter after a coughing fit. “Ahhhh… perhaps I’ll share the story with you later.”

“I see,” she said. _Northern fool_, she chuckled to herself.

#

As Daenerys gazed out into the Hall of the Hundred Hearths from the side hallway, she thought that they could have managed to fit all the nobles of Westeros into this single chamber and still have enough room for people to move around. There was plenty of space in the hall for all of those who had pledged themselves to her and Jon, even with the tables and stools running down the length of the hall. With the large number of men and women waiting for them to speak, not to mention the group of Harrenhal workers and servants checking on their needs, she couldn’t see the back of the room.

“Shall we?” Jon said, offering her his hand.

“Together we shall.”

The entire room were at their feet if they were not already so when the royal couple and their honor guard came into the room and made their way to the large raised dais at the front of the room. Missandei had already mounted the dais and waited until they were there before announcing their arrival.

“You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, First of her name,” Missandei said, and all of the noble-born in their room sank to one knee. “High Queen of the Andals, Rhoynar, First Men, Ghiscari, and Valyrians. Lord of Westeros and New Valyria, and Protector of the Realms. The Khalessi of the Great Grass Sea. The Mother of Dragons, The Unburnt, and The Breaker of Chains.

“You stand in the presence of Jaehaerys Lightbringer of House Targaryen, Third of his name, also known as Jon Snow of House Stark,” she continued. “High King of the Andals, Rhoynar, First Men, Ghiscari, and Valyrians. Lord of Westeros and New Valyria, and Protector of the Realms. Friend to the Giants and the Children of the Forest. The Arisen, The Secret Dragon, and The White Wolf.”

“Long live the High King and Queen,” Lord Tyrion called out in a clear but not loud voice.

“Long live the High King and Queen.” The response rumbled through the hall.

#

**Jon**

His mind wandered as he and Dany approached the platform.

There had been a few times in his imagination when he saw his father legitimize him as Jon Stark in front of the entire North. Most of those times, he pictured himself as a loyal servant of Robb and his other siblings, but there may have been once or twice when he wondered what it might have been like to serve as Lord of Winterfell.

His Northern father had taught him much about ambition, warning of its dangers to men, from smallfolk to kings and bastards to trueborn. _Ambition is a treacherous thing for a man, _he remembered Lord Eddard saying. _Thwarted ambition can curdle into resentment, blinding a man to his true nature and the rewards that he already has. Avoid this, for it will leave you forever unsatisfied. Perhaps it is best that you’ll not likely deal with the opposite of that feeling, having your dreams fulfilled… that can make a man question if all he has gone through was worth it._

_Father, what then would your advice be to a man who received _more _than what he ever dreamed of? _he thought with a rueful laugh to himself. _I am a husband, soon to be a father to children I will pass my name to, and now Dany and I propose to rule an entire continent and a sizable piece of another continent. Nothing to say, Father? Well, likely you never imagined it, even though you knew who I was._

He looked out both in the audience and the sides of the dais, looking for his family. He could barely see his surviving brother smiling at him from the middle of the hall, almost hidden by the standing crannogmen around him led by Howland and Meera Reed. Sansa was at the front foot of the dais, nodding to him as she waited for her cue as part of the performance to come. Finally, he saw Arya rolling her eyes at the pageantry as she waited in a side passage with Gendry to make their entrance. _I love you,_ she mouthed to him.

_I’ll be fine. My pack is here, _he thought, counting Dany as one of them as well.

#

**Daenerys**

After the introductions were made, she spoke up, mindful to project her voice loud enough so all in the massive hall could hear.

“Lords and ladies of Westeros, thank you for joining us in this hall to participate in this Great Council,” Daenerys began. “Many of you have journeyed long to come here, and you have done so despite the opposition of your claimed sovereign. I truly appreciate the sacrifices that you have made to come here and stand beside myself and my husband.

“When I was a child, I grew up with my brother’s stories of the Iron Throne and the glories of our house’s history,” she continued. “Over the years, I began to think of how I might add to that history, to make my own mark. After the death of my brother, I began to think of how _I _could sit on the Iron Throne and restore my family to its rightful glory.

“However, along the way, I began to realize that what I wanted was something far more than simply taking charge of a kingdom or even seven kingdoms,” she added. “I saw the huddled slaves of Astapor, Yunkai, and Meereen, and wondered why they should be enslaved and I free. I broke their chains, and in the process created a world of its own, a new land where those who once were enslaved were now free to live and make their living how they best saw fit. I became as responsible for these people just as much as I feel responsible to serve you all. And, I saw how their dreams for their lives mirrored both my own and those of you.”

As she spoke, she cast her eyes over those in the audience, a dizzying variety of people from Northerners to the Dornish and Dothraki alike. Their initial reaction to her words, depending on where they were from and how long they had served her, ran from enraptured to cautiously curious.

_I will have to win _these _people over as well_, she thought. _The southren lords and ladies are more willing to accept a Targaryen than the North was at first. They are also at least aware of what Cersei has done to seize the crown and are not in favor of it. Their favor is more straightforward, but I must take care to cultivate it all the same._

“In time, I met a man with whom I shared a belief that there could be a new world, one of freedom, enlightenment, and opportunity, one far better than even what has come before.” As Jon beamed at her as he stood to her right side, she reached out and took his hand. “And, it is this world that we propose to start building today, with your help.” She then looked to her left and nodded to Tyrion, who had been standing back and to her left.

Tyrion took a couple steps forward before speaking. “Their Graces have asked me to explain how we will proceed today,” he began. “First, although Their Graces are already married in the eyes of the Old Gods, they wish to renew their vows under the Faith of the Seven, with the High Septon officiating.” He pointed to the man, resplendent in his flowing gold robes and seven-sided crystal crown, standing at the bottom of the dais facing the royal couple. “Afterward, they will be crowned as the High King and Queen of Westeros and New Valyria. Their Graces will make some announcements regarding some of the changes that will occur as part of this new High Kingdom, and then announce the high lords and ladies and vassal kings and queens they have approved to serve as regional rulers in the High Kingdom. Later, Their Graces and members of their Small Council will meet with individual delegations to hear their petitions. All are invited to participate in tonight’s feast and festivities as well, as it will serve as their belated wedding feast.”

With that, Tyrion stepped back and the High Septon made his way up the dais to stand before her and Jon as they still held hands. In the High Septon’s hand was a large leather-bound copy of _The Seven-Pointed Star_, which Daenerys knew was the main holy text of the Seven. “This man and woman come before the Gods seeking to be bound. Who presents them?”

“I do, Lord Tyrion Lannister, Hand to the bride and groom,” Tyrion said. Given that the royal couple had already officially married and that this was to be a new type of coronation as well, there were a few parts of the ceremony to come that were not strictly according to the ways of the new gods. "I present Jaehaerys and Daenerys of House Targaryen, High King and Queen of Westeros and New Valyria.”

The High Septon nodded. “Let us pray in the sight of the Seven,” he intoned as he opened his holy book. She and Jon joined the others in the hall who followed the Seven Who Were One in bowing their heads as the High Septon led the hall in an abbreviated version of the typical Faith of the Seven wedding prayers.

She stole a look to her right and had to suppress a smile as she could see him rubbing the thumb and finger of his other hand together in what appeared to be a nervous tic. _It seems like years ago since I first saw him on the other end of Dragonstone’s throne room. What did I first think of him? Some type of Northern fool, I imagine. A Secret Dragon, indeed, but he has been more than that to me. He helped me to become a better person, and I’ve helped him become the person he was destined to be._

After many drawn out minutes of intoned prayers, the High Septon finally closed his book with a final affirmation and folded it with one hand against his chest. Nodding to the royal couple, he said, “You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection.”

The next step, since both were of House Targaryen, was simple enough. Jon undid the black cloak with the red Targaryen symbol on it, spun it around his back with a quick theatric flourish, and in one motion set it on her shoulders and fastened it around her, to a few muted chuckles from the crowd.

“My lords, my ladies, we stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife,” the High Septon continued. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.”

As he nodded to the royal couple, she and Jon raised their already clasped hands up to the High Septon. As he took a red silk ribbon and tied it around their outstretched hands, he said, “Let it be known that Daenerys and Jaehaerys of House Targaryen are one heart, one flesh, and one soul. Cursed be who would seek to tear them asunder.” As he finished the knot, he continued. “In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity.”

He then unraveled the knot. “Look upon the other and say the words.”

She turned to Jon. His eyes shone brightly at her and he had a smile for her, but there was still the slightest tremor in his hand which quieted down the moment they were in hers.

“Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger,” she heard her and he say simultaneously. “I am his/hers and he/she is mine. From this day, until the end of our days.”

Jon leaned over to her, gathering her in his arms. “With this kiss, I pledge my love,” he said with no hesitation. She let herself melt into his embrace for a moment, just another woman pledging her fate with a man rather than forging a royal bond. “I love you,” he whispered in her ear just before they parted.

“Love you, too,” she responded.

“Now, the king and queen will accept the crowns of the High Kingdom,” Tyrion intoned, and then nodded to four young men standing at the foot of the dais as the High Septon stepped over to the side.

The men were squires of two of Ser Bonifer’s knights from the Holy Hundred. Two held between them a wooden chest about the size of a regular man’s torso, and the other two had a small wooden table just large enough for the chest to rest. They set first the table and then the chest on top of it directly in front of the royal couple.

The chest had two latches on its lid. Daenerys undid one latch while Jon undid the other, and then opened the lid until it sat open, although none on the floor of the hall could see into it.

Jon reached in and withdrew a light crown made from fine silver. There were three separate tines shaped as dragon heads in the Targaryen style rising from the crown in the center, left and right of its front. On both sides of crown, dragon wings flared up and away from the main band. He held it in front of himself at waist-height, facing him.

She now reached in and withdrew another silver crown. This was shaped as a simple smooth circular diadem, almost like a giant ring. The only ornamentation on it were the simple black velvet felt on the interior, like hers, and a single smooth oval ruby in the center.

Again, she had to suppress a chuckle in front of the lords and ladies of Westeros. _You wished to avoid your crown looking ostentatious, my love,_ she thought. _You’ve certainly succeeded._

Jon raised the crown in his hands above her head. “Daenerys Targaryen, First of Her Name, do you swear to rule over the High Kingdom and its peoples with justice and mercy, to uphold its laws, protect it and its peoples from all harm, and lead it to future prosperity, until your last day?”

She took a quick breath. “I do,” she said, and he laid the crown upon her head.

Now, she raised his crown above her head. “Jaehaerys Targaryen, Third of His Name,” she intoned, “do you swear to rule over the High Kingdom and its peoples with justice and mercy, to uphold its laws, protect it and its peoples from all harm, and lead it to future prosperity, until your last day?”

“I do,” he said with all the sincerity he had in him. He had to bend down just a touch for Daenerys to successfully place it on his head, but it was done without further incident.

As they turned to face those in the hall, Tyrion proclaimed, “The High King and Queen of Westeros and New Valyria. Long may they reign!”

“LONG MAY THEY REIGN! LONG MAY THEY REIGN! LONG MAY THEY REIGN! LONG MAY THEY REIGN!” responded the crowd, and the chant eventually dissolved into more general cheering and applause for their new rulers.

As the cheers eventually died down, Jon then turned to Sansa, who was still at the bottom of the dais. “Crown Princess Sansa Stark, Wardeness of the North and Lady of Winterfell, come forward.”

Sansa made her way up the steps to come before her brother. As she approached him, he reached into the chest next to him for a second time. He withdrew another small silver crown, this one with tiens shaped as icicles along its front and sides and a single round diamond set in its front.

Jon held the crown to his chest. “As I accept the crown of the High Kingdom, I now give the crown of the North to you, my heir to that kingdom. Sansa Stark, do you swear to rule over the North and its peoples with justice and mercy, to uphold its laws, protect it and its peoples from all harm, and lead it to future prosperity, until your last day?”

She had to clear her throat briefly, but she nodded. “I do.”

Jon set the crown down on his sister’s head and took her shoulders to have her face the crowd. “Sansa Stark, Queen in the North,” Jon intoned, his Northern accent more pronounced than earlier in the ceremony. “Long may she reign.”

The Northern lords cheered, and their chant rang throughout the entire hall. “THE QUEEN IN THE NORTH! THE QUEEN IN THE NORTH! THE QUEEN IN THE NORTH! THE QUEEN IN THE NORTH!” Daenerys imagined that she could hear Arya and Jon’s voices above the rest as they joined in.

As the crowd settled down, Daenerys took Jon’s hand and walked with him to two chairs set up directly behind them on the dais. They were the simple but padded high-backed ironwood chairs they had been using in the Hunter’s Hall with their previous audiences. _Much simpler than an Iron Throne, and likely more sensible, _she thought. _Maybe that would be another way to break the wheel._

The two of them took their seats and prompted the audience to do the same. She noted that Ghost and Spirit had made their way into the hall through one of the back passages. Unhindered by any of the men at arms, by instinct they found the human members of the pack up on the dais, under the dubious eyes of many southren observers in the audience. Spirit sat to the left of Daenerys, and Ghost to the right of Jon, as they surveyed the scene with disinterest.

_It would be some comfort if Drogon and Rhaegal could be here, but its not likely they could fit even in _this _hall, _she thought as she stroked the top of Spirit’s head. However, she could feel her dragon children’s presence in the air above, as they took off for a midday hunting flight from their temporary sanctuary in Harrenhal’s godswood.

“Lords and ladies, I also wished at this time to make an announcement,” Daenerys said. “Despite the ceremony here, the king and myself have been married in fact for some time. He and myself are expecting our first child.”

_That _got the attention of the crowd once again, and there were plenty of murmurings as the High Septon approached them. “Actually, the king and I believe I am carrying twins, but we know at least one child is forthcoming,” she said with a smile.

“Your Graces,” the High Septon said, “this is glorious news. May the Mother and Father guard your child both before and after its birth.”

“So say we all,” Ser Bonifer called out.

“SO SAY WE ALL,” was the response from the crowd.

“We appreciate the blessings of the Seven, and your well-wishes,” Daenerys said after the cheers died down. “We also know that those in the High Kingdom, both in Westeros and New Valyria, follow a variety of gods. As rulers of all these people, we pledge to allow them to worship whichever gods they wish, as long as they obey the laws of the High Kingdom.”

“However, we also are aware of the actions of Cersei Lannister in the destruction of the Sept of Baelor,” Jon said. “Since it was the actions of the crown that led to its destruction, it will be the responsibility of the crown to give restitution. After we have seen to all the essential needs of King’s Landing and its residents, we will oversee the building of a new sept on the site of the ruined one.”

“Your Graces, the Seven and its faithful give our thanks,” the High Septon said with a deep bow.

“One thing that I do admire about the Faith of the Seven is its hatred of slavery,” Daenerys said, nodding. “It is a hatred I share – there is a reason I am known as the Breaker of Chains. I and the High King declare that the practice of slavery is now and forever forbidden throughout the entire High Kingdom, and any who are now held in slavery anywhere within those borders are now and forever free.” That brought forward another murmur from the crowd. “Anyone, whether they are subjects of the High Kingdom or not, that either seek to enslave others, or trade or transport people for slavery, within our borders or waters, will have their property seized and those enslaved set free. They may be subject to other punishments as well, depending on the Crown’s Justice.

“In addition, we will be a sanctuary for any slaves anywhere in the world,” Daenerys said. “Any in the world who are living in bondage may come to the High Kingdom and find sanctuary and the right to make their living however best they can.”

She was surprised at the level of applause that announcement brought. However, it was not a surprise that the source of some of the loudest applause came from some of the former slaves of Dragon’s Bay that now made up part of the new Dragon Army, as well as Missandei and Serenei.

“While there are more than a few changes to the laws and ways of the High Kingdom compared to what came before, we will only talk about a few of those here,” Jon said. “First, the High Queen and myself wish to allow women more rights than is currently given under the laws of the Seven Kingdoms. We are great admirers of the Dornish law allowing the eldest child of a noble family, regardless of sex, to be the inheritor of their family’s birthright. This will now be the case throughout Westeros.” A rumble of concern ran through many of the lords, especially those of the Reach and Riverlands, although the Dornish were pleased and surprised all at once. “This will not effect any current plans in place for succession among any of your families, and you also have the right, as always, to change plans for succession if you so wish. However, from now on, the eldest born of any family, male or female, will have the initial right of succession unless otherwise changed.”

There was another rumble of… _uncertainty, _if not dissension. “Yes, Ser Marran,” Jon said, recognizing the head of House Dondarrion.

“Your Grace… does this new rule of succession extend to the royal family as well as noble ones?” he asked.

“Exactly,” Jon said. “If our first child is a girl, she will be first in line of succession.”

The Stormlander’s eyes widened and he looked around the room as if to see if everyone else had heard the king’s statement. Apparently, he had not been expecting the answer he got. “Ah… very well, Your Grace. Thank you,” he concluded taking his seat.

“There is another, slightly related rule, that we should also tell you of,” Daenerys said. “The wars of recent years have seen the extinction or near-extinction of many great houses. Almost every part of Westeros have seen houses, even great houses, fall extinct or nearly extinct. My house, as well as the house of my husband and his mother, could certainly be considered among the latter.

“To help families preserve their names, it will now be law that a woman who has a child and the father is either unknown or has abandoned his family will have the option of giving that child her family’s name rather than a bastard name,” she said. “In addition, a husband and wife will have the option of giving their child the family name of the mother if they both consent.”

There was more than a little cross-talk when she had finished. As it faded, she saw Lord Edmure Tully get up from his seat. “Your Graces, I do not question your decision making, but this new rule… seems to be a break from our traditions.”

“It seems that way at first, my lord, but perhaps not as much as you think,” Jon replied. “There are many examples to be seen. Cersei Lannister was married for more than twenty years, and yet she does not attempt to rule under her husband’s name. My sister, your niece, the Queen of the North, she had been married to three men, and yet she is still known as Sansa Stark. What difference is it truly if her children bear her family name as well?”

With a rueful sigh, Lord Edmure bowed to Jon and Daenerys. “You make an excellent point, Your Grace,” he said, taking his seat.

“There are some more laws that will be forthcoming, but we can discuss those at a later time,” Daenerys said. “For now, we will discuss matters regarding the defense of the High Kingdom and its governance.”

“Our immediate concern, now that the Others from the North have been dealt with, is the unlawful rule of Cersei Lannister,” Jon said. “We intend to go to King’s Landing, depose her, and confirm our rightful rule over Westeros. However, the High Queen and myself have thought much about the defense of the realms after this task is complete.

“As all of you are aware, I previously served in the Night’s Watch and rose in time to be its Lord Commander,” he continued. “The purpose of the Watch was to guard the Wall from threats from the North. At first, it was the threat from the Others; later, when knowledge of them passed into myth, it was the threat of the Freefolk.

“After millennia of service, however, the old purpose of the Watch is at an end,” he added. “The Others are vanquished and no more, the Freefolk are now our allies, and there’s an opening at the eastern end of the Wall, now called Eastwatch Gap. A new era calls for a new method of defense.

“As a result, by royal decree, I have released all the brothers in black from their Night’s Watch vows. Lord Eddison Tollett, Lord Commander of the Watch, please step forward.”

As the surprised whispers spread through the hall, Eddison rose from where he had been sitting with some of the Northern lords and came forward. “I am announcing the creation of the Night’s Army. This new force will be dedicated to the protection of all Westeros from dangers to the realm, and will be under the direct control of the High Kingdom. The intention is to provide a more efficient and professional defense to the realm that does not rely only on the bannermen of regional lords.

“Men may enlist in the Night’s Army voluntarily for a period of ten years,” he continued. “Unlike the Night’s Watch, these brothers in black will be allowed to marry and have families. At the end of their terms, they will receive a pension from the High Kingdom, or may reenlist for future terms if their health allows them to serve.

“Others may still be sentenced to terms in the Night’s Army for ten or twenty years, or life, depending on their crimes, and they will not be allowed to marry or have families,” Jon further explained. “However, the crown, or the Lord Commander of the Night’s Army, may reduce or end these brothers’ terms with the army for heroism or service above and beyond their expected duties.”

He now turned to Eddison. “Lord Eddison, do you accept my offer to become Lord Commander of the Night’s Army?”

The grizzled brother in black knelt before his old friend. “I do.”

Jon nodded, “Rise, Lord Commander. Of the brothers in black who were freed from their service, how many have enlisted in the new Night’s Army, to become the new brothers in black?”

“All thirty and one hundred formerly of the Watch,” Eddison called out, to the wide-eyed, brows-raised, and mouths-opened shock of those in the audience. The cross-talk was fast and furious.

“Excellent,” Jon said. “Although the Night’s Army will not play a significant role in the removal of Cersei Lannister, these thirty and one hundred men will be the seed for the future army of Westeros. You may be seated, Lord Commander.”

As the crowd began to calm down, it was Daenerys’ turn to speak. “We will now reaffirm the high lords and ladies, and the vassal kings and queens of Westeros. You already know of Queen Sansa of the Kingdom of the North,” she said, pointing to Sansa, who was in a place of honor near the foot of the dais, now seated in one of a row of chairs to the left and right of the dais’ foot that were otherwise unoccupied. She bowed as she was seated. “In the Vale, Lord Robyn Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, will serve as High Lord of the Vale. He is represented by his cousin and heir, Ser Harrold Hardyng.” Ser Harrold got up from the group of Vale knights at one table and took one of the empty seats to Sansa’s right.

“In the Riverlands, Lord Edmure Tully, Lord of Riverrun, will serve as High Lord of the Riverlands.” Lord Edmure got up from his place with the Tully bannermen and sat down to the right of Ser Harrold. “Queen Yara Greyjoy, Lady of Pyke, will rule over the Iron Islands in the High Kingdom’s name. Although she has no representation here, we have letters from her here affirming her recognition of the High Kingdom’s authority.

“Now, I will ask the Princess Sarella Sand, Lady of Sunspear, to please step forward,” Daenerys said.

Sarella combed her fingers through her short hair as she got up and walked to the center of the foot of the dais, dressed in a similar trousers, tunic, and vest that she had on when she first met with the Dornishwoman. “Your Grace,” she said, kneeling in front of her.

“Princess Sarella, you and your allies from Dorne have done much to serve the cause of the High Kingdom, and your family has made many sacrifices for the crown. Such service needs to be recognized.” She stood up and held her hand out, palm-first, toward Sarella. “In the name of the High Kingdom, I legitimize yourself and your surviving sisters, and I recognize your rule of Dorne. Arise, Princess Sarella Martell, Princess of Dorne.”

As she rose, Sarella could not speak for a few moments. “I… I thank you, My Queen,” she stuttered. “My family… it thanks you.”

“The High King was just as willing to do this as I,” Daenerys, said, with a smile that reached both her eyes and mouth. “It is the least we can do for our loyal friends.”

Sarella bowed again. “Your Grace,” she said, then hurried to an open chair to the left of the dais and opposite Sansa’s row and sat down.

“To serve as High Lord of the Reach, we have named Lord Samwell Tarley, Lord of Highgarden. Lord Samwell, come join us,” Daenerys said. Head down but looking from side to side, Sam rose from his seat to sit next to the empty chair next to Sarella.

“To rule over the Stormlands, Lord Gendry Baratheon and Lady Arya Stark Baratheon, Lord and Lady of Storm’s End, will serve jointly as the High Lord and Lady,” Daenerys said. Gendry was dressed much as he had for his wedding, and Arya wore a nearly identical outfit, minus the capes. Daenerys struggled to keep a straight face as her goodsister sat down at her chair next to Samwell, crossed one leg over her knee, and glared at the crowd as if daring them to make any comments. Those were not forthcoming.

“The High Lord of the Westerlands will be determined at a later date once the fate of Ser Jaime Lannister has been decided,” Daenerys said. She took a quick glance in the direction of Jaime, who was succeeding at trying to go unnoticed while standing in one of the far corners of the hall. “Until this has been resolved, Lord Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the High King and Queen, will serve as acting Lord of Casterly Rock and High Lord of the Westerlands.” She was surprised to hear little reaction to that news from the crowd.

“With that said, as important as strong local leadership is in Westeros, it is equally important in New Valyria, especially given that the High King and myself intend to establish our court in King’s Landing and Dragonstone,” she said, moving on. “To do this, we are announcing the establishment of the High Council of New Valyria, to be based in Meereen, the capital of New Valyria. Members will come from all the member regions of New Valyria and be represented according to the size of their populations, and will meet to help set local laws and decisions.

“In addition, the High Council will be led by a First Minister, who will be responsible for the day to day rule of New Valyria in the name of the High King and Queen, representing their views,” Daenerys added. “This person will be able to override the decisions of the council if it conflicts with the will of the High King and Queen. Missandei of Naath, please step forward.”

If anything, Missandei seemed even more nervous before the eyes of the lords of Westeros, looking down and keeping her arms tight to her sides. “_Myhsa,_” Missandei said as she bowed before them.

“Missandei, for the past several years, you have been one of my most valuable advisers, and grown to be a true friend. I can think of no one else I would trust with this duty. Arise, Lady Missandei of Naath, First Minister of New Valyria.”

Even though she knew what was to happen, Missandei still was, like Princess Sarella, speechless at first. “You honor me, My Queen,” she finally said. “I hope my service does honor to you, and the people.”

“I know it will,” Daenerys said as Missandei rose. “Grey Worm, commander of the Unsullied, please step forward.”

Grey Worm was soon right next to Missandei as she bowed. “Yes, My Queen.”

“Lord Grey Worm, I name you Lord Commander of the Dragon Army of New Valyria,” Daenerys said. “As with the Night’s Army of Westeros, the Dragon Army will protect New Valyria and their peoples from all threats to their safety and security. As such, you will have membership on the High Council of New Valyria, as well. I trust no one more with the safety of New Valyria than yourself, my lord.”

“It will be my honor to serve, _Myhsa_,” he said with another bow.

“Thank you. And to all those who will serve, may you rule with wisdom, compassion, and a sense of justice,” Daenerys said.

“Long may they reign,” Tyrion called out in response.

“LONG MAY THEY REIGN,” the crowd responded, and there was a muted but sustained round of applause for all those named.

“Finally, before we adjourn for the moment, the High King and myself have a presentation to make,” Daenerys said, rising from her chair as Jon joined her on his feet. “We have seen during this war about how families and houses may come and go, but the people remain. As such, we believe that it is time that the realms of Westeros and New Valyria, along with the High Kingdom, had their own sigil, their own coat of arms. And so it shall be now. First, the coat of arms for Westeros.”

Two Stark bannermen carried the banner on top of a pole to stand next to the High King and Queen. On a black background, it showed a white weirwood tree with its typical red leaves. Above the tree was a crescent moon.

“If I may beg your sincere pardons, Your Graces,” the High Septon said after a few moments of silence. “Does this symbol not give particular reverence to the Old Gods? I believe you said that you did not wish to show favor among the faiths…”

“Truly, Your Holiness, there is no one more faithful to the Seven than myself, but that is not the case with this coat of arms,” Ser Bonifer said, stepping forward. He pointed to the tree. “Note that the tree does not have any visage carved upon itself. As such, it does not represent the old gods, but the realm of Westeros where such trees exclusively grow.”

The High Septon’s eyes narrowed as he squinted at the sigil, but eventually, he nodded in assent. “I do see. A wise representation of our realm, Your Graces.”

“And now, the coat of arms for New Valyria,” Daenerys said. Two Unsullied soldiers carried another banner on a similar pole as the Westeros banner. This banner was white and featured a red dragon in the center. This had a single head, and not three as in the Targaryen style. Facing forward and wings spread, it appeared to be lifting into the air. At the dragon’s feet were two black broken chains.

“This sigil honors both the history of the Valyrian Freehold, as well as its more recent history of serving as a place where the enslaved are set free,” Jon pointed out. “And finally, the sigil of the High Kingdom.”

A soldier in a Targaryen uniform and one of the Unsullied carried that banner so it rose behind the royal couple. It was a divided banner, with the sigil of Westeros on the right half and the New Valyria sigil on the left. A small Targaryen sigil was at the bottom of the banner, right on the divided border, symbolically joining the two sides together.

“This is a new symbol for a new High Kingdom,” Daenerys said, taking Jon’s hand in hers. “When I planned to assume rightful rule of Westeros, I wanted to make a better place for its peoples – to break the wheel rather than battle for who is on top at any one time. The High King and I see this coat of arms as a symbol of that change and better world.”

Sansa then stood up, head lifted and arms swung wide. “To the High Kingdom,” she called out to the crowd. “long may it prosper!”

“LONG MAY IT PROSPER!” the crowd rumbled in response, and there was a slow but steady wave of applause that built up afterward.

As the applause continued, Jon leaned over to whisper into her ear. “Well, they seemed a bit easier to win over than the Northerners, considering.”

_My Northern fool, _she thought with affection as she turned and kissed him on the cheek. “Oh, this is just the first step of the journey, dear Jon,” she whispered. “There’s much more work to be done, even after Cersei is dealt with.”

As he caught sight of Tyrion telling the crowd that the High King and Queen would be receiving audiences in Hunter’s Hall, he shook his head and rubbed his chin with his free hand. “The meetings,” he groaned. “I’d forgotten. They were Father’s least favorite duty, as well.”

“Well, we’ll have each other to keep our spirits up, at least,” she said, squeezing his hand.

“Aye, we will at that.”

# 

**Euron**

_It was starting to come together._

He was peering through a Myrish lens – well, he’d gotten it in Asshai, but it still served the same purpose – and using it to scan the eastern shore of of the Eye’s Fork, the tributary of the Blackwater Rush that would lead them to the southern shores of The God’s Eye. He could see that except for the teeming host he commanded that was hugging the shore, there was no sign of anyone for miles around.

_The Army of the Seven Kingdoms, _Euron thought as he observed them on the march. _Something of a misnaming, but the bards likely won’t give a shit. _Of those Seven Kingdoms, only the Iron Islands, Westerlands, Stormlands, and Dorne were represented in any significant form, and they didn’t even make up half of the forces there. Even many of the Crownlands lords, including houses Celtigar and Velyron, had refused Cersei’s call, or perhaps worse. The remainder of the host included Essoi mercenaries, with the Golden Company and their massive war elephants lumbering along and the Wild Geese on his ships leading the way. _All of them fight for the Iron Throne, for _me, _though. That’s what’s important._

He was impressed with the army and river navy’s progress. Within maybe a couple days, they would be at the God’s Eye, and then they could begin the final maneuvers before striking Harrenhal.

_And it looks like they don’t have any clue what’s coming. _There had been barely anyone that had crossed their paths – no flying dragons, no Dothraki scouts or Vale knights, not even any scraggly wildlings or Riverlander scum. There were the odd fishermen on the shore or farmers in fields nearby, but they always made themselves scarce the minute that they noticed the host.

_Even with the Lannister loyalists and the gold cloaks we left behind, we have more than 40,000 men eager to fight. That gives us at least a two to one advantage in men… and that doesn’t account for the wildfire…_

Yes, the wildfire, the beautiful green ooze cooped up in the barrels aboard his longships. He sometimes imagined the stuff straining against its oaken and iron prisons, aching to be released. _Soon, my dear. Soon._

He all but giggled as he imagined the expression on the dragon bitch’s face when the green fire started to melt down those castle walls. _It’ll make Baelron’s work seem a small harvest, indeed. _He hoped that his Ironborn or the other troops could take her alive. _She would be a pretty prize indeed for Cersei, even though it will be a shame not to have my fun with her before. Maybe as fun as Yara might have been…_

He knew his victory was not fully guaranteed, of course. The entire adventure was certainly something of a last cast of the dice, indeed. But Euron Greyjoy was Ironborn, not some landborn sheep content to be a decoy for a queen. _I have ravaged all the seas of this world and made them pay the Iron Price. I know I can pull this victory from the jaws of defeat. If I win, the bards will run out of songs to sing of my victory. If I lose… well, at least my last day will be interesting. _With that, he set aside his lens and went back below decks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there we go. I know there was a lot to absorb there, but I wanted to showcase it. Even though getting rid of Cersei is the priority for Jon and Dany, they have been thinking long and hard about breaking the wheel and this is one of the results of that thought process.
> 
> I'm continuing to write on a regular basis, although it will be interesting to see what the pace is coming up. School is starting soon, and that will take up time, as well, although what shape that will eventually take will be interesting.
> 
> Feel free to comment - I love to respond back to them. Tell your friends if you liked this, too - I love getting new readers.
> 
> And yes, we are up to 56 chapters now. I will get to the end, though - promise.
> 
> [AUTHOR'S NOTE, 9.1.2020 - With school staring now writing time will be a bit constrained, but even with a busy schedule I'm hoping to try and average 500 words per day. The work continues, and future chapters will be forthcoming.]


	46. The Great Council

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Army of the High Kingdom remains in Harrenhal, the Army of the Seven Kingdoms moves into place and another scheme is set into motion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, hope everyone is having a great Labor Day weekend. Thought I'd make this chapter a present for all of you. Enjoy.

46.

**Jon**

_Ruling can be tedium as much as pageantry and stress. Perhaps that’s the good thing about having faced the Others – you tend to appreciate the boring times._

It was the second straight day of meetings, and this one had lasted well past supper. Jon, Dany, and their advisers were having with some of their more prominent liege lords in Hunter’s Hall. Instead of sitting up on a dais looking down at everyone, the new High King and Queen decided to sit with them at a long rectangular feasting table. Another surprise was that they had not chosen to sit at one end of the table, but at the middle, surrounded with their advisers to their immediate left and right. At first some of the other lords thought they had gotten prime spots at the ends of the table until they realized how far away they were from the sovereigns.

The conversations had gone back and forth between plans for the final takeover of King’s Landing and what would happen afterward. He and Dany had decided that they would have to start moving the army toward King’s Landing from Harrenhal within the next two days. Tyrion and the war lords were handling the smaller details, but soon the army would be on the move.

“I’m somewhat wary of the expenses we might face in expanding our roads,” Lord Gerold Hightower said. “With the devastation wrought by the previous war, this war – and the devastation to come, mind – I’m not sure the resources are available for such a massive project. I’m estimating that the project when finally finished might cost the treasury seven million gold dragons.”

_He knows his numbers, at the very least,_ Jon thought. He’d become more impressed with Lord Hightower the longer that the Great Council had continued. _He might be a good candidate for the Small Council, maybe Minister of Coin._

“I can understand Lord Gerold’s concerns,” Princess Sarella Martell replied. “The enormity of the project can seem daunting, considered as a whole. However, I think when we get into acquiring the building materials, the expenses are not as severe as you might think. Also, remember that this is a multi-step project. It took the High King’s namesake nearly a decade to build the Kingsroad to what it is now. It will be easier to improve and expand the roads than building them in the first place, but it will take a long period of time and we will be able to spread out the expense over that time.”

He saw Dany beaming at the Dornish princess, who was almost as adverse toward dresses as his own sister. The two of them had become close over the past several days, Dany impressed with Sarella’s keen intellect and Sarella, in turn, with Dany’s political savvy. _There are still spaces to fill on the Small Council, but it might not be so small for long. _Dany had talked with him about adding new positions on the council, with new duties. _If she would take it, the princess will have a spot on the council._

“All we’d need to do is to begin the improvements out from King’s Landing, north and south, along the Kingsroad,” Sarella continued. “Then, we could proceed onto the other roads as they connect with the Kingsroad.”

“I’m curious, Princess Sarella,” asked Lord Swann, one of the Marcher Lords of the Stormlands, “if you are so interested in expanding the roadways of Westeros, why not talk of expanding them into your lands?”

“A very good question,” Sarella replied. “Dorne has long been isolated from the rest of Westeros. It is a condition that has been… desired by its people, for different historical reasons. While a road connection to the rest of Westeros might be useful, one cannot simply impose one’s wishes on their people. A good argument must be made for such a move. Even if we do not decide to join Westeros by road, I do intend to improve those connections through a stronger merchant presence over the seas.”

“Sensible prudence, my lady,” Lord Gerold commented.

“Your Graces, my lords, I know the hour is late, but I wish to make sure we are in agreement on the plan of attack,” Ser Harrold Hardyng said, as Ser Yohn Royce turned a dubious side-glance at the younger heir to the Vale. “I am glad that we will finally press Their Graces’ claim to the throne, but is such… cautiousness in our advance advisable? We have the numbers and the weapons, living and otherwise, to secure victory.”

There were some nods of agreement and murmurs among some of the other lords at the young knight’s words, but Jon decided it was time to change their perspective. “My lords, Ser Harrold is correct about our strength and our ability to win the day,” he said. “In a typical fight, like one knight facing each other on the jousting or melee grounds, that would be enough. But, this is not a typical fight. Think of it more as one knight holding off another by holding a knife to the throat of an innocent woman.”

As many of the lords stirred up side conversations and puzzled glances, Jon continued, “In this case, Cersei is the knight threatening the woman, who is King’s Landing. Her knife is the wildfire we know that she has placed underneath the city. Simply charging at them will do no good. More subtle maneuvers are needed.”

“Let me assure you lords, that my husband and those he trusts have made those plans,” Dany chimed in. “We have faith in them, and the people we have entrusted to carry them out.”

#

**Jaime**

If he had heard the High King’s words, he would have had a laugh at them, for the idea of Jon and the Dragon Queen trusting him was impossible for him to take seriously. However, he was with those planning the takeover of King’s Landing.

It was a forgotten storage room somewhere in the Kingspyre Tower where he gathered with the group tasked for the matter. By torchlight in the windowless room, the cold and damp glistening off the walls, they poured over the map of King’s Landing thrown across the battered wooden table splintering at the edges. In addition to the usual landmarks, the passages underneath the city had been indicated in dotted lines that Ser Bronn, now Lord of the Twins, had sketched out. They had been confirmed as accurate, to the best of their abilities, by his brother Tyrion, who was helping keep the peace between the nobles and the High King and Queen, Ser Davos, who was there alongside them, and the woman who stood hunched over the map in the middle of the table.

_The fate of the capital of Westeros, the fate of this entire adventure, might be in the hands of a girl of eight and ten, _Jaime thought to himself and did everything he could to suppress any outward sign of wariness. _The wars ever since the old drunk died has hollowed out this place. Now the kings are gone except for a secret dragon and now one woman goes out to war with another._

If marriage had a mellowing effect on the newly named Arya Stark Baratheon, Jaime could not sense it in the slightest. It looked like she was wearing the black leather jacket and trousers she’d worn during the Battle of the Long Night, and although it was likely a trick of the light, he almost thought he could see a splash of old black blood across her right sleeve. The token of her husband’s affection hung around her neck, and while he stood beside her, she was respectful yet hardly deferential around him.

At Arya’s left-hand side was Brienne, carefully looking over the map beside Arya. She had favored him with a brief smile, sapphire eyes soft and vulnerable, before turning back to the map. _Something… no, that was over with. _In full armor, she looked fully in place at the council of war.

The others were a motley crew at best. The Hound loomed over the map, seeming to calculate when he could get within a swords-length of his brother as part of the scheme, but surprisingly deferential to the Stark girl. Lord Howland Reed, the small, greying, but quick-witted and sturdy crannogman was at one end of the table. Ser Jaime was also surprised to see Toregg the Tall there with some of the Freefolk. Just as tall as the Hound, he appeared to be just as brash and unrestrained as his father, idly twirling his double-bladed ax around and around on its handle.

“The three groups will infiltrate the city separately,” Arya said just loud enough for all of those around the table to hear. “Lord Howland, your group will go to that shanty settlement just outside the walls, between the Old Gate and the Gate of the Gods. You’ll find a large grainery… right there, a few yards away from the walls, see? Tyrion said the opening to that tunnel can be found there, and then you can make your way into the city’s tunnels. With the shanty town and everyone inside it, you should be able to disguise your presence from any of the defenders on the wall.”

“Not likely they’ll pay attention to us at all,” Lord Howland nodded.

“Toregg, you and your Freefolk will drift down the river in the boats to the docks and the fish market,” Arya continued. “There’s a sewage tunnel that empties out just below the fish market. You should be able to use that to get in, then follow these paths to the tunnels.”

“No worries,” Toregg grunted, tapping the butt of his axe against the floor. “My lads and I snuck past the crows in the Shadow Tower without any cover up North. With all the boats and fishermen around here, they won’t even notice us.”

Arya nodded. “My group will travel by boat and enter this cove here, under the city walls just east of the Iron Gate,” she explained. “We’ll be able to get to the tunnels here.

“After the two of you have checked the caches of wildfire we’ve told you about, you and your men will proceed to the gates and make sure that they are opened to let the smallfolk escape. We must assume Cersei’s men will be able to set off some of the wildfire, and besides, our hope is that they get out of the city to safety anyway. Lord Howland, your men will see to the Dragon Gate, the Old Gate, and the Gate of the Gods, here, here, and here. Toregg, your men will take care of the River Gate, the King’s Gate, and the Lion Gate, here, here, and here.”

“As for our little band?” the Hound grunted.

“We’ll leave behind some men to open up the Iron Gate,” she said. “We’ll go through these tunnels around the Hill of Rhaenys and under the Street of Silk until we get to the central square and the Hall of the Alchemists. If there’s any way to set off all these wildfire caches throughout the city in one place, it’s likely to be there. We need to make sure that place is secure.”

“And after?” Toregg said.

“While your groups are making sure the smallfolk can escape safely and Their Graces bring the army to the walls, we’ll take the tunnel directly up to the Red Keep, to make safe the wildfire caches there and make sure there’s no way Cersei’s men can set off the rest of them from the keep.”

_And assassinate my sister, as long as you’re there… _but the girl was discrete enough, or the matter of no concern to the others, that she did not mention it.

“Make sure you study your routes and where we’re expecting to find the wildfire caches,” Arya insisted. “Whatever happens, we will be leaving for King’s Landing the night after the next. That’s it.”

As the men and women went their separate ways, Jaime was glad that Brienne stayed until he could walk to her. “Brienne, I…”

“My father wants to speak to you,” Brienne sighed. “He said ‘whenever the lad has a moment,’ but I think there’s more to it than that.”

Jaime’s shoulders slumped just a little as he flashed a rueful grin, much like the ones in his youth when he knew his own father was on the warpath. “Well, I suppose it couldn’t be helped.”

“He’s in his guest quarters. I can show you where, but he wants to speak to you alone.”

“Brienne, about what I said the other night…”

He was silenced when Brienne laid a long finger across his lips. “I’ve long known who you were, Ser Jaime Lannister,” she whispered. “I’ve known what you’ve done, both noble and ignoble. This changes nothing.” For the briefest of moments, she lifted her finger and let her hand brush against his cheek. “Come on,” she said, and he followed her.

#

Brienne hesitated before the door. “I’ll wait outside, until… after…”

“I appreciate it,” Jaime said.

“Good luck,” she replied, and opened the door for him.

As Jaime entered the room, he saw Lord Selwyn bending over to tend the fire in the room’s hearth, using an iron poker to make sure the fire got enough air. “Ser Jaime?”

“Lord Tarth, your daughter said you wished to speak with me?”

“Ah, yes.” As he put the poker next to the fire and straightened up, Jaime swore the old man was tall enough to have touched the ceiling of the room if he’d stretched high enough. “Please, sit down,” he said, pointing to one of two stuffed chairs in front of the fire. “There’s some wine for you at the table if you wish,” he said, pointing to a pewter flagon filled with some Dornish red wine.

“Thank you.” As Jaime sat down, he reached for the flagon with his bronze hand. With a slight effort, he managed to ease the hand open enough to grasp the flagon and take a drink. After another effort, he unhanded it again.

“Clever party trick, that,” Lord Selwyn chuckled as he took a drink himself.

“Your high lord built it for me, as it turns out.”

“Hmm,” he said, shaking his head. “Even more clever. It’s going to be a change for all those Stormlander lords to have some boy who can build things as their lord rather than one who just knows how to break them.”

“His new bride seems well-versed in breaking things, if that’s what the Stormlands need.”

“She does at that.”

Jaime leaned forward, elbows on his knees, as he turned to the Evenstar. “Lord Selwyn, I…”

“Are you and my daughter lovers?” he said.

Jaime gulped and took a deep breath. “Yes,” he said in an even voice.

“The truth, just like that?” Lord Selwyn said.

“For most of my life, I kept two great secrets hidden – my love for my sister, and the fact that my niece and nephews were my daughter and sons. As a young boy, I always wondered what was such a big deal about lying, even for a knight. But now, not having to lie, there’s such an… ease on my heart, not having to worry about what I’m going to say.” Jaime’s eyes never left the sapphire ones the Evenstar shared with his daughter.

“Why did you knight her?”

“No one I knew deserved it more than she did. She made me want to be a better knight, a better _man_, for that matter.”

Lord Selwyn took another drink before continuing. “I suppose I should be enraged at this news – at least, to hear the septons tell it,” he said. “Then again, I always thought Brienne would never get married. So, I suppose this is a start,” he said with a laugh.

“My lord, I did not wish…”

“She’s all I have left of my wife, pretty much all I have left in the world along with my lands and wealth. But, none of that means anything without her…” He stopped himself, dragging a hand across his face as he shook his head. “Seven bloody hells… Ser Jaime, I need to offer my apologies.”

_What does he mean? _“My lord, there’s nothing…”

“I should not be lecturing you, of all people, about what it is like to lose one’s children and to fear the loss of more,” Lord Selwyn said. “I am truly sorry for my words.”

The image of Myrcella lying in his arms aboard the ship flashed unbidden in his mind, but he accepted it. _I deserve it,_ he thought. “Thank you, but think no more of it.”

Selwyn grunted and took another sip. “The point I clumsily tried to make is that her happiness is paramount in my mind. With that said, I would like to know your intentions toward her, what promises you have made.”

Jaime took another deep breath. “My lord, I have made none.”

Selwyn’s white brows furrowed at that news. “And why…?”

“In the next two weeks I could very easily be dead,” Jaime replied. “Depending on the whims of our enemies, that could very well happen tonight. There are also a few of our allies that would like to see me dead and might get their wish. There is no one I have ever loved more than your daughter, Lord Selwyn, but I do not wish to give her false promises when I cannot give truthful ones.”

He could see the Evenstar’s shoulders sink at that news. “I can see your point.”

“Do you wish me to be done of your daughter?”

“Truthfully, Ser Jaime? I do not know.”

“You are feeling perhaps helpless now, since I am apparently holding your daughter’s heart hostage. If you _did _wish me gone, then you would be at a disadvantage. For your benefit, my lord, I will give you that advantage.”

“What do you mean by…”

“You know the High King’s surviving brother? I put him in that chair he now sits in,” Jaime blurted. With a dropped jaw and Lord Selwyn gripping the armrests of his chair in silence, he decided to go forward. “It was when King Robert came to Winterfell to ask Lord Stark to serve as his Hand,” he continued. “I was making love to my sister in an abandoned tower of the castle when the boy happened on us. To protect ourselves and our secrets, I shoved him out the window to the ground below.”

There was a long silence after Jaime told his story. Finally, Lord Selwyn responded. “Do you intend me to threaten to share this story with my daughter?”

“No, actually, I finally told her the story myself three days ago,” Jaime said with a wave of his hand, chuckling. “I’d told her all of my other villainies, but for some reason I thought she might be disgusted with this one. She didn’t run away, at least. No, I was thinking that the High King might be interested in who crippled his brother. Execution might be a good way of getting rid of me if that’s what you finally want. Beware, though – I might end up telling the High King of my crimes myself.”

“Lord Brandon does not know?” Lord Selwyn said.

“Oh, he knows, all right. I asked him once up North why he never said anything to his family. He asked what the point would be of it.” Jaime shook his head. “If I live another forty years, I’ll never understand Northerners.”

“Hm.” What the Evenstar said next was more like a plea than a command. “Since you have my daughter’s heart, Ser… protect it at all costs.”

“Don’t worry, my lord. I’m not one to break the heart of a woman who can beat me in a sword fight on a good day.” There was a sad smile as he remembered their duel on the bridge.

Lord Selwyn took a deep breath, then nodded as he rose out of his chair and leaned back for a moment to stretch his back. “The hour is beginning to get late,” he said. “I believe I have said everything that needs saying at this point, to be honest. Best for both of us to rest. Ser Jaime, I appreciate your visit this evening… and your candor.” He reached down and extended his right hand, but quickly switched to his left with a mutter and a shake of his head.

Jaime extended his real hand and shook the Evenstar’s. “Thank you, my lord.”

After Jaime closed the door, he looked up to see Brienne waiting for him. “How did it go?” she said, hands clenched at her sides and on tiptoes, more nervous daughter than assertive knight.

“No swords drawn, so that was a plus,” Jaime said. “All I have to do is survive wildfire, my sister’s sworn swords, and the wrath of the High King and Queen, and I might have a future.”

Brienne groaned and rolled her eyes. “Come on with you, it’s getting late.”

#

**Dolorous Edd**

He was glad that he didn’t need the spear to stand up.

It had been his staff during the long march down to Harrenhal – thank the gods that he hadn’t had to walk all the way down, it was all on horseback – but it had been his constant companion until now.

He stood on the observation gangway above Flowstone Yard, where what had once been the last of the Night’s Watch and what was now the seed of the Night’s Army now trained below.

There was little for him to do except to observe and judge. Captains trained group leaders, and group leaders were training the rest. _Soon the lot of them will be trainers and officers, _he thought. _Jon wants me to be the creator of something totally different, something beyond this fight. _That was something different, something he had never expected when he took the black nearly twenty years ago. _It’ll be a task… then again, I’ll have ten years to work on it._

_Ten years… _ he’d gone in a year from a celibate overgrown bachelor who was likely to die on the Wall… to someone who for whom _options _now loomed. He supposed that he could always re-enlist at the end of ten years, but how long would he be able to keep that up? It was hard to keep things straight in his head.

“How’s the training going today?” a lilting Dornish voice called from behind.

Edd looked behind him. It was the Princess Sarella, walking up a pair of rickety wooden stairs up to the platform. He’d seen her at the meetings of what was apparently going to be called the Small Council of the High King and Queen, though what role she and several others would play were still undecided.

He’d never met someone exactly like Sarella Martell. With her straight black hair shorter than many men had, including Edd himself, and her preference for men’s tunics, tan leather trousers and vests, and leather boots that reached to her knees, she almost seemed like a Dornish version of Arya Stark. Or, perhaps, she had the spirit of one of her infamous older sisters. However, he never saw her training with weapons, and she gained attention in the councils of lords with the weight of her words, not with how loudly she spoke them or the passion of her voice. She had impressed him over the past week with her personality, levelheadedness, and practicality. The old wives’ tales of wild, emotional, and sexually free Dornish women didn’t seem to fit the Princess, nor did any old labels given other women in Westeros.

“I apologize, I wasn’t making small talk,” Sarella said. “I’m honestly interested in how it is going. Even though I didn’t take to it as naturally as Nymeria and my other sisters, I did learn how to fight from my father when I was a child. But I will be honest, I never studied much about warfare and even less about generalship, even when I was at the Citadel in secret. As someone who intends to rule, I need to be aware of such things, even if I’m not an expert in them.”

“Sensible,” Edd said, unused to having any woman’s eyes on him as the almond eyes of Sarella fixed on him. “What were you studying instead?”

She smiled slightly at the question as she stood beside him and leaned on the nearby railing. “Many of the sciences, both theoretical, such as the existence of this world as a sphere rather than a flat shape, and practical, such as the building of Valyrian roads and aqueducts. There was so much to learn, reading through the books in the Citadel and sometimes hearing the lectures the maesters gave… there would never be enough time in a lifetime to learn it all, when you really think about it.” There was silence between them for a moment, and Edd felt it was almost too intimate to look at her directly in the eye. _The Watch wanted you to have a woman, it would’ve issued you one, _he remembered his old trainers saying. “You disapprove of that?” Sarella finally said.

“To be honest, I’ve not really met any woman so interested in knowledge,” he grunted out, forcing himself to try and face her out of common courtesy. “Mind, being in the Watch all those years meant I really wasn’t around much of any women, so maybe I’m not the best judge of that.”

She stretched her back for a moment before leaning back against the rail. “I couldn’t know what that was like, but… for many years, I hid who I was, lived as a man even though I wasn’t, away with other men and away from women.” She laughed and shook her head. “Maybe I do know something of your struggle, if not for as long and you.” She now looked him in the eyes. “I had asked you a question about your men, Lord Commander.”

“Oh, aye,” Edd said. _Back on more solid ground. _“It’s not so much these men are training to fight; these men are training to be trainers. They’ll be the ones molding the new recruits were going to have to find to make this Night’s Army work."

“Building this… _legion, _you call it?”

“The biggest independent unit in the army, is what it will be,” Edd nodded. “We’re looking to make each legion be about 5,000 men in all – still trying to sort out what the mix of soldiers would be. Build one legion, then get to three or five, and you’re beginning to get a proper standing army on your hands. It’ll be a long process.”

“What of your counterpart representing New Valyria, Lord Commander… Grey Worm? He has to build up this Dragon Army when they return to Dragons Bay, do they not?”

“They’ll have a lot more to work with, to be honest,” Edd said. “With the remaining Unsullied here and those new recruits they have from Meereen, they’ve got more than 10,000 soldiers just here, not counting the ones they have holding down things back there. They’re some tough bastards, too, not even counting the Dothraki.”

“Best they don’t, to be honest,” Sarella said. “I get the feeling they don’t much care for not fighting. Anyway, I think it is a good thing for the High King and Queen to be planning for the future as we prepare to win the war in front of us. If not for the future, why would we be fighting this war in the first place?”

“Not too many generals or kings think about that. I know Jon’s different.”

“Lord Commander… you seem so informal with your king,” she chuckled.

He scowled for a moment at the remark. “It’s different… I served alongside him, watched him grow up into the man he is. Someone who had honor and wanted to do right, even though this world for so long never did right by him. Everyone calls him by a different name, but he’s still the same man. He’s still Jon to me. And that’s why I chose to serve him even after he told me I could be free.”

She seemed a bit chastened at his reaction, looking down for a moment before speaking again. “Being grounded, being honorable, those are good traits in a king.” Sarella looked up at him. “I don’t recall you saying anything about where the army will be based in the end.”

“Well, we can set up legions anywhere in Westeros when they’re ready to go, but speaking from personal experience, the training for the new recruits should be up at Castle Black. The North is unpleasant as all seven hells, but I personally think it’s a good place to forge soldiers. It’ll take a while for them to form up… not soon enough for this war by a damned sight.”

“I’ve never been up north myself… this actually might be the farthest north in Westeros I ever traveled. Is the North as bone-chillingly cold as the bards claim?”

Edd snorted as the memories of years past flew by. “On its worst days, the cold seeps into your bones so much that it stays there. Sometimes… sometimes I think its always with me, but the bright days help chase it away. There were plenty of beautiful days up North, though – days that would take your breath away. Sometimes, standing on top of the Wall on the warm days it was weeping, and summer was out to play, you could see so far north and south that you thought you might see to the ends of the world. But I suppose that’s not to the taste of someone who grew up in Dorne.”

“Seeing the Wall might be a sight, though. Maybe not to live there, though. Your family was from the Vale, correct?” He nodded. “I know you wished to serve your friend, but did you ever think about returning to your home?”

He shook his head with a waved hand. “Parents were dead by the time I took the black, and my brother and sister had died even before that, so my branch of the house is extinct. I wasn’t close with the main branch of House Tollett. It’s a strange thing, but… I feel free and adrift all at once. The brothers in black ground me – maybe I need that, for now.”

“I know plenty about loss, how it can leave you adrift. Even though some of my sisters still live. I went from being the odd girl out in my family to being the one in charge. _That’s _been an adjustment, having people depend on you… you’d know about that yourself, leading these men.” Edd felt her eyes gaze up and down his features. “How old are you, Lord Commander?”

“One and forty, Princess,” he grinned. “Most days I’m a young man looking in the mirror wondering where the time has gone.”

“It’s not too late for you to start something anew, though,” Sarella said. “The brothers of the Night’s Army are allowed to have families, are they not?”

“I wouldn’t know where to start,” he said, eyes widened.

“Ever since I was a young girl, the word my father used for me was _inquisitive,” _Sarella said. “I always wondered about how the world and its parts worked, its possibilities. It led me to learn a lot of things. My father was impressed enough with my studiousness that he indulged me in my wishes. My life and responsibilities have changed now, but that inquisitiveness has not left me. In fact, it’s helped me quite a bit to picture what could be possible. Don’t be afraid of different possibilities, Lord Commander.”

“Making conversation with me is a possibility?” Edd chuckled despite himself.

“You’re not a peacock like too many of these southren lords and sers, and like too many of my Dornish countrymen, it’s sad to say,” Sarella sighed. “I’m loyal to the High Queen and King because they appreciate me on my own terms. You seem to as well. You don’t put on airs, you’re direct, and you look after your lads,” she added, nodding toward the brothers in the yard. “Not many are like that.

“Besides, maybe I’m a bit like you right now,” Sarella concluded, leaning down and stretching her elbows onto the railing. “Maybe I don’t have anyplace in particular to go at the moment, either.”

They stood there for a while, watching the brothers train. Many men liked to label women as talkative or forward, but Sarella Martell was comfortable with the quiet. She also didn’t seem to mind one way or the other that he couldn’t quite work up the courage to lay a hand on the elbow right next to him.

#

**Arya**

The interior of the House of Black and White blurred along with her vision, and the pain started.

The blows came from all over, before she had honed her other senses to make up for her eyes.

_Death is certain… the time is not…_ she heard Jaqen H’gar whisper in her ear.

She sat up with a start in bed, expecting to be sleeping in her old cot in Braavos, but she was in a wide featherbed with enough pillows to rest a dozen heads. Gendry was fast asleep beside her, curled up into a ball from years of sleeping in too-small spaces even though the bed could fit three of him in it, never mind he and her.

The dreams of Braavos and the House of Black and White had been more frequent in recent nights. _I may have given them a life for a life, but perhaps the gods are telling me I am not yet done with them._

She got out of bed, feeling like sleep was eluding her. Usually, when she was in this mood, she’d make her way out for a walk around the cavernous grounds, the old horrors of her and Gendry’s imprisonment there softened but never far away. Not wanting to attract attention, she decided to go hidden.

Arya slipped on an anonymous, frayed woolen tan dress and worn slippers, With the face she had used to surprised the Freys, she now looked just like any other Harrenhal servant.

As she left her room, she thought of her identity as Cat of the Canals, exploring Braavos in the dark, more bravery than sense. _I knew everything back then, _she thought with a rueful grin.

She ducked into a corridor just before some people would have walked past her. She congratulated herself on not being seen… when she sensed something out of place in the movements behind her.

#

**Daenerys**

There were a few benefits of co-rule – especially if one was expecting.

Usually, she and Jon would meet with the lords and knights of the army, especially during the last couple of days as they prepared to move southward to King’s Landing. Idly, she wondered how Viserys might have acted if, by some practical joke of the old gods and the new, he had somehow managed to obtain the army he needed to invade Westeros and prepared to take the throne. _He would be quivering in anticipation, the little worm, _she thought, _and here I am just looking forward to a good rest for myself and my sweetlings. Of course, Jon would have shoved him aside in the end, and I’d be in favor of it… just like I stood aside and let Drogo dispose of him._

As she curled up in bed, she missed Jon’s arms curled around her, especially her belly more and more, as she drifted off to sleep, thinking of possible silver-haired or dark-haired children and their names that she kept dear to herself. _Only Jon knows._

At least she wasn’t totally alone. Spirit was nearly hidden against the side of her bed, partly covered up by the quilts as she slept against the floor. She was surprised the young girl direwolf hadn’t decided to keep her company in bed, but perhaps Spirit sensed that Jon would return and that Ghost, who was with his master, would soon curl up against her. There were some guards outside, a pair of the Holy Hundred and the Unsullied, working to ensure that the _Myhsa _and the future heirs to the High Kingdom were safe.

It was just when she started to close her eyes when she saw a member of the Unsullied open the door and look inside. In and of itself this was not unusual, for them to check in on her and Jon occasionally, but there was something… _unusual _about this one. His movements seemed awkward, his uniform strangely not quite fitting properly.

It was then that the man opened the door wide and let three other men in Unsullied regalia in, spears raised, preparing to stab her in bed. They hurried to the bed, and a horrified Daenerys jumped up in bed. _The scimitar Arya gifted me… it’s on the other side of the bed. Even a dagger wouldn’t help against spears… sweetlings, forgive me…_

A looming light grey blur flew past Daenerys and collided with the Unsullied farthest to the left. There was a _crunch _as Spirit bit through the man’s neck. The assassin closest to them raised his spear to try and strike the direwolf between its shoulder blades, but Spirit whirled first and with a wet tearing sound bit down on the man’s femur and dragged him down to the ground. The remaining two men, including the man who had led them into her chambers, appeared to conclude that the direwolf would be occupied with their companion, so they rushed to her side of the bed, spears ready to strike.

A hot red spray showered over Daenerys’ face, blinding her. _Gods, no… the children, _she thought, even as she felt no pain. With a swipe, she brushed her hand over her eyes to clear them, and saw the bloody spray over her nightgown and bedding.

One of the men was tumbling to the ground backwards, at the foot of the bed, his throat spewing blood from ear to ear.The leader was frozen in place, spear clattering to the ground, as a dagger held in one hand by what appeared to be a serving girl was plunged under his jaw.

The small figure pulled out the dagger and jabbed it into the right side of the man’s neck, sending another fountain of carotid blood over Daenerys’ bedding. He let out the smallest of gasps as he sank to the ground with the dagger still embedded in his neck, barely heard over the screams of the other man being ravaged by Spirit’s fangs and claws.

The servant girl ran to Daenerys’ side to take her by the shoulders. “Your Grace? Daenerys, it’s all right, you’re all right…”

The door slammed open as two figures lurched through it. Ser Bonifer was dressed in what appeared to be a sleeping tunic and trousers, and Lady Meera was only in a grey nightgown. Bonifer had his sword drawn and Meera brandished her frog spear. “Your Grace! Your Grace!”

“She’s fine, Ser, she’ll be all right…” the girl began to say, turning to face the Royalguard with both hands raised high in the air.

“What in the name of the Mother is your business here?” thundered Ser Bonifer, sword pointing at her.

“My family’s business,” the girl said, and reached for her face.

As the girl’s face began to come off, Daenerys’ breath caught in her throat as she saw the unbelievable. Ser Bonifer moved toward the woman, but Meera Reed held him back before he could move closer.

The girl turned around and she had Arya’s face. The old face she dropped on the ground as she came back to Daenerys to embrace her again. “You’ll be all right, Sister. You’re safe, now,” as the gurgling cries of the last false Unsullied came to a halt.

Daenerys looked down at the ground where the crumpled face lay and then back to Arya. “The Faceless Man?” Arya nodded. Daenerys let out a barking laugh, then suddenly dissolved into tears as her head slumped against Arya’s shoulder while her goodsister held her.

Arya looked behind her at Ser Bonifer. “Where were her guards?” she hissed.

“Dead,” the chastened knight replied. “Throats slit, two of my Holy Hundred and two of her Unsullied. I should have been on guard…”

“You can’t look out for her personally all the time, and you might have wound up dead anyway,” she said in a softer tone. She then looked at the strange crannogwoman who was her goodsister now in all but name. “You got here fast,” Arya said with a raised eyebrow.

“Brandon said she was in danger,” Meera said, somewhat out of breath as she lowered her spear.

With her muzzle and part of her back sprayed with the fake Unsullied’s blood, Spirit now ambled back to her lady and laid her head down near Daenerys’ lap. Arya stroked her head. “Good girl, Spirit,” Arya whispered. “I don’t know if you are Nymeria’s kin, but you do have her style, surely.”

There was another commotion at the door as Jon, Grey Worm, Missandei, and Ghost appeared in the doorway. “Dany!” a horrified Jon croaked, seeing the room painted with blood.

“She’s all right, Jon,” Arya said. “We’re fine.”

The High King stumbled over the bodies of Daenerys’ would-be killers and took his sister’s head in his hands. “Arya… I…,” he tried to say, but he couldn’t go further as tears rolled down both his cheeks.

“She’s safe, Jon. I had some help,” she said, pointing to Spirit and the others.

Jon turned to help hold up Daenerys and tried to get the blood off her the best that he could. “For a second there… I thought I lost you all.”

_They are all here for me. They would protect me to the death, Jon most of all. _“I had people looking out for me… and maybe your old and new gods as well,” she said, trying to put on as brave a face as she could as Jon used a sheet to clean the blood from her face. Ghost alternated between laying his head on the bed to watch over his lady and turning around and attempting to lick Spirit’s muzzle clean of blood.

As they worked, Arya got up from the bed and walked toward the body of the assassin’s leader. “Hired knives of the Lion Pretender, surely, My Lady?” Ser Bonifer sneered as Arya kneeled over the body.

“A safe guess, I believe, Ser Bonifer,” she said. “Now to find out what type of hired knives they are.” She reached down and grasped one corner of the man’s face, at the left side of his jaw, and pulled as if to tear off his face…

…only to have a puzzled Arya come away with nothing in her hand except dark smudges of what appeared to be makeup on her fingertips. Underneath, the man, whose head was shaved in the Unsullied style, had a far lighter skin tone than that of the typical Unsullied recruit. “Arya,” Daenerys finally said, “What is it?”

“I’d thought these men might have been the Faceless Men of Braavos, like I once was… but these men would have had far better disguises than this,” Arya said, pointing to her own discarded face on the floor. “Typically, they work alone and are the best at what they do – if I hadn’t been one of them, they would be the people I’d hire to kill someone. These were amateurs – I should have realized when four of them came in all at once.” She stood up and picked the discarded face off the floor and stuffed it into a pocket of her dress. “The Faceless Men have a high price. Either Cersei didn’t have enough to pay – more likely she didn’t want to.” She stared off into the distance, leaning on the bed for a moment.

Now Lord Tyrion ran through the doorway, panting with exertion. “The queen is well, Lord Tyrion, not to worry…” Jon said as he continued to try to sooth her.

“Ah, yes, of course, Your Grace,” Tyrion said with a bow, mouth wide as he took in the blood coating the floor and spattered across the bedspread. “If I may, two couriers have arrived at the main gates with messages specifically for you. The men… the men are Ironborn, High King.”

A stillness came over Jon as he held her, absorbing Tyrion’s words. “Theon,” he said, standing up from the bed. “Show me.”

#

**Jon**

All of them trailed Jon as he followed Tyrion into the torch-lit main courtyard before the main gate. Even Daenerys had insisted upon coming, wrapping herself in a red dressing gown and cloak to try and hide the sight of blood from observers.

Just a few moments before, all he’d wanted to do was find an unsoiled bed, clean up his wife, and sleep for two days after nearly seeing his wife and children to be taken from him. _When I entered and saw all the blood… I almost dropped dead then myself from the grief._ Now, he marched toward the gates, his only focus being on the two men on the ground.

One man lay on a cot and the other sat on the ground. “Both men are in desperate need for water, food,” Tyrion said. “Poor beasts they were riding were half-dead.”

Jon leaned over the man. “What’s your name?”

He gazed upward with unfocused eyes. “Mander, Your Grace.”

“You have messages from Lord Theon Greyjoy for me?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” he said, holding up two letters with a shaking hand.

Jon accepted them and guided the man’s arm down to rest at his side. “The maesters on their way?”

“Se… Lady Serenei is on her way,” Tyrion said, stumbling.

Jon read the note. Only his eyes moved down the page for the next minute. Finally, he handed it to Dany. “Here.”

She opened it up as Jon read the second note. The first note had read:

Brother,

My uncle, Euron Greyjoy, approaches your position along the Blackwater Rush with a host of boats accompanying a host marching along the banks. I am unsure of the exact size of the force, but the infantry, cavalry, chariots, and elephant troops traveling by land number 30,000 at the least.

I urge you to see to your defenses as quickly and as best as you can. I do not know how, but I doubt Euron would test your defenses at Harrenhal if he did not think he could overcome them. I am following from a distance and will do everything I can to disrupt his assault when it happens. 

Prepare to defend yourself. May the Old Gods and the Drowned God look over us both. I said I would not fail you, Jon, and I will prove it now.

Yours,

Theon  


As she finished the letter, he saw Jon tuck the second letter into a inside pocket of his jacket. “What did that say?”

“It’s a letter to La… my sister, from Theon,” he said. The numbers from Tyrion’s records of the number of their men, Marton’s plans for the castle, the story Sam had told him a week previously… all of it whirled in a maelstrom in his head. “When did you leave Lord Theon’s ships?” he asked the other man.

“Four, maybe five days previous, Your Grace.”

“What time of night is it?” Jon snapped at Tyrion.

His Hand held his own hand up in the air, judging the position of the moon in the sky. “Likely… two, three in the morning, Your Grace.”

“Fuck me,” Jon whispered to himself. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, saying nothing, looking only within himself, what he knew, what he needed to know. _I need to protect them._

His eyes flew open. “My Hand, I need all the Westerosi war leaders to join me in the Godswood. Right now, all of them. You see to it.”

“Your Grace,” he bowed, and willed his shortened legs to make another dash to Harrenhal’s massive guest quarters.

“Grey Worm, get Khal Jommo and meet us in the godswood, and make sure your men are on alert.”

“High King,” he said, saluting him hastily before sprinting off to his assignment.

“Missandei, can you have the queen’s armor and clothes brought to us in the godswood?”

“It will be done, Your Grace,” she said, bowing before running off.

“Ser Bonifer, I need you to get that large map of the lands around the God’s Eye and bring it to the godswood. Also, we need to wake up _everyone, _soldiers and smallfolk alike.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Ser Bonifer kneeled before running off.

“Meera…”

She was already sprinting toward the guest quarters. “Wheel your brother into the godswood by the heart tree, understood,” she yelled looking back.

That set off a chuckle from him. _My brother’s mate is nearly as strange as him. _He took Daenerys by the hand. “We’ve got to go,” he said, smiling. “Time to wake the scaled children up from _their _slumber.”

She took a deep breath as she followed him. “How much time do you think we have?”

“None,” he said.

“You know how we’re going to fight off these people?” she said, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes,” he said as they walked toward the godswood.

#

**Euron**

#

He grinned as the first of the wildfire pots were being loaded. There were three big catapults on his boat that could hurl the infernal missiles toward their intended targets. Small drops of the green liquid could be seen on the pots, but the fuses attached to them wouldn’t set it ablaze until they shattered on the stone walls.

He could barely wait for the green fireworks to begin. _Aegon just singed this massive black pile of rocks; _I’ll _be the one to burn it to the ground. Euron the Conqueror… or Euron the Kraken… fuck, I’ll let the bards sort that shit out._

He didn’t notice the raven that landed on his boat’s mizzenmast and stared down at the Ironborn wrestling the pots into the catapults’ cradles and loading bolts with jars of wildfire attached to them into the scorpions. He never saw the raven’s all-white stare at the commotion below.

#

**Bran**

_It’s begun._

#

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup, we are about to see The Battle of Harrenhal commence. It's all going down in the next chapter, but it'll take more than one to tell it all. I'm looking forward to sharing it with you.
> 
> One of the men I read about beginning as a kid was the general and future U.S. president Ulysses S. Grant. Over the years, I've grown to admire him more as a military leader and one of the underrated geniuses of military history. I'm not quite sure which of his biographers came up with the term "three o'clock courage," but it referred to Grant's ability to face a disaster when least expected and deal with it. Jon's reaction to Theon's news here, despite the near tragedy he suffered, was an homage to that. However, I think everything Jon has been through in his life, both before and during this story, would lead him to develop that trait.
> 
> Sarella might not be a fighter, but she’s seen the long-term problem with the Dothraki quite clearly. 🙂
> 
> Say hi, in the comments, and I'll almost certainly say hi back. I've appreciated everyone who's left kudos, bookmarked this story, and left their comments here. I've appreciated it all.
> 
> Writers keep writing, and everyone keep safe.
> 
> [AUTHOR’S NOTE, 9.6.2020: One year since I started this story. Crazy. I’ve made a lot of progress since I started this, and it would be cool if I finished it up this year. We’ll have to see.]


	47. The Battle of Harrenhal Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two armies collide in the shadows of Harrenhal as the Ironborn King springs his surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Battle of Harrenhal, Part I, everyone. Enjoy.

47.

**Jon**

“Are there any questions?” he said to the assembled war captains. All were silent, as if to not disturb any of the old gods that might be looking on through the snarling heart tree in the center of the Harrenhal godswood. “Very well. Go to your tasks, and the old gods and the new protect us.”

The lords and war captains did not dawdle there, walking at a brisk pace to get out of the multi-acre godswood and through the entrance to the rest of the castle. Soon, he was all but alone there, hunched over the map of Harrenhal and its environs spread across a wood plank and two empty wine barrels. “How are you doing?” he half-whispered to the ony person still standing next to him.

“Steady, surprisingly,” Daenerys said. With Missandei’s last-minute help, Daenerys looked far more together than she had been just a short time before in their blood-soaked bed chamber. She had elected to wear a black velvet dress, one of the insulated winter ones she’d first worn in Winterfell, both to ward off the expected cold up in the winter skies and to make her a more difficult target for any errant arrows or scorpion bolts. She’d also put on the black steel cuirasse that had served her well back in Winterfell. Jon himself was in his full black steel Targaryen plate armor with scale styling, with the red three-headed sigil across his chest. “I’m glad that we’re together in this. I just hope… this is the end of it, the end of the old ways trying to hold on long past their time.”

“Maybe not, but it’s the beginning of the end of it, I think.” Drogon’s low, thrumming hum as he stirred in his corner of the godswood. “I think the lads are ready for your attention.”

Her hand drifted across his cheek and then drifted down his breastplace after she kissed them. “’Lads,’ she said, shaking her head. “Still my Northern fool. Don’t be too long.”

As she walked off to see Drogon and Rhaegal, Jon went over to the only remaining group of people in the godswood. Bran sat in front of the heart tree, surrounded by Meera and four more of her father’s best trackers and fighters. “It would be grand if you could talk the people coming after us out of attacking, Brother,” Jon said with a grin as he laid a hand on Bran’s shoulder.

Bran showed him the smallest of smiles, eyes almost closed. “I’m not even sure a Three-Eyed-Raven could have managed that, much less a plain Raven,” he said. Bran reached for Jon’s hand, taking off his brother’s glove and clasping it in his own bare hands. “I’ll try… try to connect with you, if I can. Let you know what I can see.”

“I’ll take whatever help I can get, Bran.” He turned to Meera. “Look after my brother, would you, Meera?”

“As much as he lets me,” Meera said with a raised eyebrow. With a nod, he patted Bran on the shoulder and started to head to Drogon and Rhaegal.

#

**Arya**

After saying a hurried goodbye to her family in the godswood as well as Meera, Arya walked back into Harrenhal’s courtyard. Gendry was beside her, in his full armor with his warhammer across his back, staring at the bull-horn helmet he’d created in his hands, almost like he was silently asking it for advice.

In the section of the cavernous courtyard nearest to the southern wall, Arya saw the northern houses, Freefolk, the Holy Hundred and the seed of the Night’s Army gathering. Three of her new friends were preparing to fight. Munda Umber had spear and shield ready next to Ned Umber. She was surprised at the appearance of Alys Karstark, who wore one of her typical dark grey Northern dresses alongside sturdy marching boots, but whose face was now covered with the same blue woad dye patterns as her husband, Sigorn Karstark, Magnar of the Thenns. Lyanna Mormont still had her right arm in a sling and was carrying a short sword in her left. To her shock, Arya recognized Stannis Seaworth standing next to her, battle-axe in hand, apparently serving as extra protection. _I don’t want to be the one to tell Ser Davos about _that. “Are you going to be all right?” Arya asked Lyanna.

“I’ve still got one good arm and I’ve got good Northern men and women around me,” she said. I’ll be fine,” Lyanna said.

“I’m sorry I won’t be here,” Arya said.

“We all have our places,” Alys said. “We’ll see you when the battle’s over.”

“Don’t get yourself skewered – Mooney eyes over there won’t get over it,” Munda laughed.

Gendry’s nose scrunched up in irritation and his blue eyes narrowed as he glared at her. “I thought you said you never told anyone about that name.”

“Oh, some mead, the companionship of good friends… you know,” she said, waving away his concern. He said nothing but gave her one last glare for good measure. “I wish you all good fortune in the wars to come.”

“You too, Arya,” Lyanna said, saluting her friend with her sword to her chest. Arya did the same before they moved on.

#

**Euron**

He was almost having to stop himself dancing a jig in anticipation.

Through his glass to the west, he saw that the left wing of his riverborn fleet had completed its curve around the God’s Eye and now caught up with the right wing, which he commanded, as they got closer to catapult range. With their black sails picking up a mild westerly wind to help the boats straining with muffled oars in the dark of the early morning, there was no way that the landbound scum in the castle could detect them. Turning to the east, he saw the lead elements of the Golden Company start to emerge from the woods on the eastern bank of the lake.

His fate now depended on the strong right arm – represented by his squadron of boats and the forces on the eastern shore – doing the major damage of the battle while the weaker left arm – the left squadron of boats and the Wild Geese company aboard them – held up its end of the bargain long enough for victory.

In a moment, his boats on the right would begin a continuous barrage of wildfire missiles onto Harrenhal. One group of boats, his own, would concentrate their efforts on reducing the southern wall, while the others would aim their shots at the interior of the castle and at its gatehouses. This would allow the ground forces of the Army of the Seven Kingdoms to advance and surround the castle.

As the left wing would give them cover with their own wildfire missiles, Euron’s boats would land on the north shore of the God’s Eye, dropping off him and the Ironborn marines at what would be the hole where the southern wall had been. His boats would then fall back and give cover for the left wing to make their own landing just west of the castle.

Strickland and the Golden Company would anchor the army’s line at the water’s edge just east of Harrenhal. Eventually, the Stormlanders, Dornish, and remaining Essoi infantry, in turn, would line up on the Golden Company’s right flank and begin their encirclement of the castle. The Westerlander infantry, screened by the combined Westerosi and Essoi cavalry, would make the longest run around the castle, finally connecting with the Wild Geese anchoring against the lake just west of Harrenhal. Once the encirclement was complete, they could either slaughter the desperate soldiers fleeing Harrenhal and the green flames, or they could advance through the rubble and mop up the charred corpses.

He took one more look at Harrenhal through his lens, desperately calculating whether they were within catapult range. The King of Rock and Salt was certain, but to give them just a few extra yards… “The signal! Give the army the signal!” he bellowed.

At that command, two flaming arrows were loosed up and eastward into a V-shape. It was the signal for Strickland to begin his advance. After that, Euron could no longer restrain himself. “CATAPULTS… LOOSE!”

The thick jugs of green death leapt off the decks of the boats and hurdled toward the black cliff walls of Harrenhal. With his Myrnish eye, he spied the first missile from his boat hurdling toward one of the turrets of the castle…

…where it shattered perfectly on the top of its battlements, splattering green fire over everything in a huge plume of flame. As the screaming defenders fell from the battlements, he could see the flames starting to melt the tops of the wall. His grin reached from ear to ear.

“SHOOT AT WILL! Throw everything at them!” The wildfire bombs were mixed in with heavy boulders – the wildfire melting the walls and the boulders breaking up the melting walls. It only took seven missiles to bring the Tower of Ghosts crumbling down, covering up the eastern gate.

“Focus on the southern wall!” he shouted as the combination of oars and sail were bringing them closer to the beaches. He could see the top of that southern wall almost start to sag as the fires spread across it.

_By the Drowned God, this is working. _The fleet got ever closer to the beach and ready to fight.

#

**Theon**

_Wildfire… fuck me. Of course, he’d try to outdo Aegon the Conqueror, the right prick._

Theon lowered his Myrish eye. “Your orders, sir?” Captain Roark asked him.

He took a deep breath. “Full ahead, as much speed as we can. And get the fires stoked. We’re going to need fire arrows soon,” he said.

“Yes, Admiral.”

#

**Harry Strickland**

It was a walk in the park, to be honest.

The Golden Company advanced out of the woods southeast of the castle in perfect marching order, awash in gilded armor and crimson velvet and silk. The heavy cavalry stayed on their flanks, ready to swing into action and roll up any opposition they might encounter ahead of them. One hundred war elephants with archers on their backs and bad attitudes in their massive skulls sortied forward, prepared to break apart any enemy formation they might find. Behind them and in the center, four solid lines of infantry phalanx rolled along, ready to mop up whatever would remain.

Ser Harry was very confident. There was no opposition in front of them, and what few defenders there were left on the eastern wall due to the wildfire were only sending up a pitiful, inaccurate scattering of flaming arrows. They were landing well short of his men, causing a considerable amount of smoke but little else. Others overshot their forces, landing well away and to their right.

He saw the Stormlanders immediately to his right, led by Lord William Trant, begin to advance in anticipation of linking up with the Golden Company. In turn, they would be joined in an unbroken line by their Dornish allies and the bulk of the Essoi sellsword companies. Lastly, the Westerlanders heavy infantry led by Roland Crakehall were entrusted to make the longest march in front of the castle to link up with Volon Maegyr’s Wild Geese from Volantis, who were approaching the western shore side of Harrenhal presently. A combined Westerosi/Essoi cavalry host co-led by Lord Lyle Crakehall, Roland’s son, and Rozaz Hizir would provide protection for the naked right flank manned by the Westerlanders.

_The loony squid was right, _Ser Harry thought as they inched closer to the melting walls of the castle. _Either we’ll butcher the poor bastards as they run for their lives or we’ll march through the holes in the walls and conquer the ashes. I need wildfire for all my future campaigns._

#

**Samwell**

Before his eyes and through his ears, all was chaos.

In the courtyard immediately nearby the main northern gate of Harrenhal, Sam was attempting to wrangle several thousand smallfolk and other noncombatants into a coherent group. As the High King had decided that the fate of those people could not be guaranteed even behind the towering, thickened, steep black walls of the castle, the soldiers of the Reach had been tasked with rounding them up and escorting them away from the fighting.

“Keep calm! Keep calm!” he hollered above the din, and he was surprised that his voice was as confident as it sounded, even though his hand was locked tight in its grip of the hilt of Heartsbane. _Thank the gods that Gilly and Little Sam are beside me, or I wouldn’t be able to concentrate. _“You need to keep calm and in good order! We will be leaving this castle soon to be away from the fighting! Stay inside our formation and you _will _leave here safely!”

At last, the smallfolk were gathering in a somewhat coherent group in between the Reach formations of Tarly, Hightower, Florent, Redwyne, both houses of Fossoway, and the rest. Those soldiers had now fully surrounded the crowd and were now leading it toward the gate.

The wildfire was now alight on top of the walls, bringing a false green sunrise to those inside the castle. Pots of the evil green stuff now and then shattered into the courtyard. Even though the noncombatants had gone unharmed so far, they were now outrunning the fires inside the castle in addition to the enemies trying to get in. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Wailing Tower, alight like a giant green torch, simply disintegrate into a shower of bricks and dust.

Lord Leyton Hightower and his two knight sons now stood by his side. Some lords might have felt offended at how he had assumed operational command of the men, even though Samwell was technically his superior. However, Samwell appreciated the experience and knowledge of both them and his sons.

“Is it still your wish to move these people to the northwest?” Lord Leyton said.

  
Samwell nodded. “The enemy is approaching from the east, so it’s likely they’ll either attack directly or try to surround the castle. That’s the safest direction that I can see.”

“Aye, I agree,” Lord Leyton said.

“We’ll have to try and get this crowd into smaller sections, surrounded by soldiers,” Ser Baelor said. “There’s no way that we’ll be able to protect them in a huge mass like this.”

“It will be impossible to get that big of a group through the gate, either,” Ser Garth chimed in.

_Makes sense_. “All right, as they go through the gate, keep them in groups of roughly… fifty or so people along with enough soldiers to protect them.”

“Yes, My Lord,” the Hightowers said in unison, hurrying off to make it so.

“Gilly… come on. I need to get you and Sam into the first group of people,” Samwell pleaded, taking her by the hand and trying to coax her forward.

She looked up, stunned, as the green flames danced across the walls’ battlements and rained down on the buildings below. “What people would think to make something this evil?” she half-whispered.

“A load of alchemist cunts in King’s Landing, is what,” her goodmother Lady Melessa Tarly growled, staring up in the air, as she and Talla Tarly joined them. “If the High King and Queen know what’s good for the people, they’ll tear the Hall of Alchemists down, banish them to somewhere on Sothoryos, and burn off any of the foul stuff they have left sitting around.”

With that pronouncement, the members of House Tarly began to hurry closer to the main gate. “Once we get out, we’ll head northwest,” he began to explain. “They’re going to concentrate on the castle, so we’ll be out of danger…”

A crumbling rumble filled the air, sounding like a dozen thunderclaps setting off in quick succession.

In slow motion, Samwell observed the Kingspyre Tower, flaming green rivers of wildfire running down its sides like a candle for giants, teeter over and then take a swan dive directly at the main gate. With a _roar _the tower collapsed into a massive rectangular mass of rubble on top and in front of the gate, blocking any exit to the north.

Samwell stopped in his tracks, holding his wife’s hand in one and his son’s in the other, jaw hanging open as he saw the destruction. “Fucking bugger,” was all he could say in the moment. _That sounds more like me, now._

#

**Dolorous Edd**

He’d never seen a wall melt before. But then again, he’d seen the undead, giant ice demons and spiders, giants, direwolves, and dragons over the past several years. It was still an unnerving sight.

The wildfire was running in rivers from the ruined top of the wall – more like the middle of the wall, with all the melting – as it appeared to be made of pudding rather than black stone. As the wildfire continued to melt it, boulders thrown by the catapults hurled through the walls like hot metal through soft snow. If they got any closer, Edd imagined it would be like sleeping inside a forge hearth.

“Steady, lads, we’ll be able to give as well as we’re getting soon enough,” he called out to his brothers in black. They were beside the Holy Hundred left by Ser Bonifer and his lieutenants to the left, the Freefolk led by Tormund and Toregg on their right, and the bulk of the Northern army to the left of the Holy Hundred. A hastily assembled barricade of timbers, overturned wagons, and debris were their only shelter, and apparently was doing nothing to reassure the brothers staring skyward at the shrieking green missiles flying above.

More than a few of the soldiers were draining any wineskins they had with them in a desperate attempt to keep cool in both a temperature and in an emotional sense. Even Ser Anders Eddarton was indulging in a long drink himself. “You need to keep your wits about you, old friend,” Ser Bonifer said to him in a concerned rather than lecturing tone.

Ser Anders gestured with his now-empty wineskin at the green streaks above their heads crashing into the castle structures behind them. “Bonnie, if now’s not the time to have a drink, there never will be a time. And I’m not one to go without any drink.” Ser Bonifer shook his head and muttered a prayer to the Crone to let his friend keep his senses, but said nothing else to his old comrade in arms.

“Have room for one more?” Edd heard behind him. He turned around to find Princess Sarella, clad in a leather armor gabeson and sturdy trousers and boots, strolling toward their line. She was unlimbering a Dornish-style bow from her back and selecting an arrow from a quiver on the right side of her belt. There was also an Unsullied short sword hanging from her left side.

“Err, what in Seven Hells are you doing _here?” _Edd replied, unable to hide his shock.

“Well, I was separated from my sister and Lord Edric, and I didn’t want to run with the rest of the noncombatants, so I decided to make myself useful,” she said as she nocked her arrow. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure not to get in the way.”

“All right, but stay close…” the Lord Commander said, but a _roar _from the southern wall cut him off.

Three boulders brought nearly the entire sagging southern wall down to the ground into a flaming pile of slag. Another wildfire pot sailed through the now unprotected southern side and splashed into a section of the Freefolk. Edd lost sight of Tormund and Toregg in the confusion.

“The Warrior will protect us!” Ser Bonifer said with more certainty than he had a right to, raising his sword high.

“Steady, lads…” Edd said again, and then he saw it.

The King of Rock and Salt took a massive step over the ridge of ruined wall like he already owned Westeros. Twin battle axes in each hand, decked out in full Ironborn scaled armor, his leering face glowed green as he strode over the flaming pools of wildfire at his feet with no more thought than if they were rain puddles.

_This is bad, _Edd thought.

Euron Greyjoy lifted both axes in the air as he gloried in all the destruction he surveyed. “What is dead may never die!” he howled with glee.

“WHAT IS DEAD MAY NEVER DIE!” thundered more than ten thousand Ironborn marines as they began to pour through the flaming gap.

#

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, I got through this chapter fast. Then again, this might have been one of the shortest chapters in this story, but I think this was just the right place to end it.
> 
> Do not worry, we have two more chapters of the battle to go, so anything can happen. Part II will likely be a bit longer.
> 
> Hope you enjoy.


	48. The Battle of Harrenhal Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As a mighty castle burns, the Royal Dragons make their move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there was a lot to cover here, and plenty of fighting to be seen! Enjoy!

48.

**Harry Strickland**

He’d always heard about Harrenhal being a massive fortress, one that only the dragonriders could conquer if defended properly.

Now, even defended by whatever army the Dragon Bitch still had, it was about to fall, its outer curtain walls melting into the ground like a mound of butter on a summer’s day in Volantis.

He saw the Golden Company’s war elephants charging through the smoke that the pitiful few archers on the wall had managed to loose, well short of their targets. On horseback, he ordered the heavy infantry forward as the cavalry began a double-time trot forward, making sure to guard the flanks of the elephants and add their weight to the eventual charge.

Ser Harry tightened his grip on Blackfyre, the legendary Valyrian steel sword that had once been an heirloom weapon of House Targaryen but had made its way to the Golden Company by way of the renegade House Blackfyre. It was unmistakable for the dragon’s head with rubies for eyes in the hilt and the large rounded rubies on either side of its pommel. Victory was almost in his grasp, as well. _I’m about to win the biggest battle of my life, defeating the most notorious royal family in the known world, and I’m going to do it wielding _their _sword. Perfect._

It was right then that Ser Harry rode through the smoke and haze. He was waiting to see the green glory of Harrenhal’s walls melting before his eyes again. He saw that, but that green glow was reflecting off three long, undulating lines of Unsullied. They were waiting for them, waiting outside the castle, not hurried, panicked, or hastily thrown together. It was like they were at the end of a long parade, ready to display themselves in front of their leaders, casually waiting for someone to watch their show.

_They knew we were coming, or at least suspected it. _He drew Blackfyre in preparation to call for the charge. _The gate behind them is a shambles. How…? They had to have gotten out before that…_

He shook his head to clear it of any doubts. Second-guessing had killed many a sellsword in the middle of battle because it kept them from fighting when it counted. “CHARGE!”

#

**Grey Worm**

He was no longer the commander of the Unsullied. These men were the Dragon Army.

It was getting more difficult every day to tell the difference between the old Unsullied and the new recruits from Dragons’ Bay on the training ground. There were more of the old cut warriors rather than the new ones. Grey Worm had always thought his Unsullied brothers were smaller due to having their manhoods taken as young boys, but the new men were short of stature, a natural consequence of being malnourished by their former masters in Yunkai, Astapor, or Meereen. There might have been an extra hardness in the eyes of the Unsullied brothers… but anyway, it was getting harder to tell.

They were no longer warriors for sale (not hire, their masters had once made all the money that they’d earned with their blades), but a Dragon Army, made up of former slaves who saw their _Mhysa _as their savior and the savior of others yet still in chains. The Unsullied had been feared, but what Lord Grey Worm now commanded was something far more fearsome… an army with a sacred cause, to live as free men and to fight to keep that right.

He’d taken care to lay out his infantry with good precision. Three massive phalanxes of three thousand men each, two in front and the third in reserve, awaited the so-called vaunted Golden Company. The remainder of the men were serving as crossbowmen, guarding the flanks and staying behind the two front phalanxes to give them covering fire.

One hundred elephants now rumbled toward the center of the Dragon Army’s line. Any ordinary men, or untrained Westerosi militia or bannermen, might have felt intimidated by such a sight. All Grey Worm did was allow himself a single snort of disdain before barking out an order to the spearmen. “MOVE OUT!”

The elephants were within twenty yards of the Dragon Army’s lines, archers attempting to trade shots with the enemy crossbowmen, when the phalanxes… parted. In a single move, the spearmen moved aside far enough to create three large channels for the war beasts to run through into empty ground. Except for a paltry few hoplites stomped on at the sides of the channels, the elephants ran through unimpeded having done almost no damage to their fellow Essoi.

It was when the elephants raced through the lines and behind the Dragon Army that the slaughter truly began. As a single organism, the crossbowmen at the rear of the formation pivoted around and began raining bolts onto the beasts. An individual Dragon Army crossbowman’s bolt was insufficient to harm most of the animals normally, but at this close of a range, their velocity had a horrible effect on both the elephants and their masters. Even worse, they were trapped between the flying bolts and the dripping wildfire flames from the walls behind them. Grey Worm saw at least a dozen of the beasts screaming as they got too close to the walls, allowing the flames to envelop them.

Eventually, it all became too much for the behemoths. They turned and ran away from the walls, away from the bolts raining in from the sides and right through the corridors that the Dragon Army had left open. They hurdled east, toward the spearmen of the Golden Company, who now scrambled to try and avoid their former elephantine allies.

Grey Worm looked to his right and left. The Golden Company cavalry had to brave heavy crossbow fire to finally reach their lines, preparing to ride them down… only to see the surprise waiting for them in the wildfire lit night, obscured by all of the smoke.

The Dragon Army’s crossbowmen sat nestled in a forest of wooden spikes – logs sharpened at both ends and hurriedly hammered at a five and forty-degree angle into the ground, both around and in front. By the time the horsemen finally saw the obstacles, the first lines of horses were impaling themselves onto them as the neighing screams echoed through the night.

Almost hidden from view, he allowed himself the smallest of smiles. The Golden Company’s overrated terror weapons were now riding down their own infantrymen, their cavalry charge had stalled, and their infantry barely could keep formation while avoiding the maddened elephants. And now, the Dragon Army’s phalanxes closed their temporary gaps in wait for the disorganized Essoi sellswords to attack. _The Dragon King knew the way, _he thought.

#

**Gendry**

He was doing his best not to feel something of a fraud.

It seemed all so ridiculous, as he, Arya, and the Stormlanders now settled into formation alongside the Dragon Army’s crossbowmen and pikemen fending off a cavalry charge. Seven years ago, he had been a forgotten smith’s apprentice when he’d been suddenly shipped off without warning to join the Night’s Watch. Then he’d met her… the one who would change his life in the end, but not after some more wandering and finding himself back in a King’s Landing smithy trying to hide. Less than a year ago, he was just some smith and occasional fighter who had come into the service of the King of the North.

Now, he found himself in full armor plate of his own design, wearing a bull’s horn helmet simpler but far sturdier than the one he’d made at five and ten, and wielding a far more massive and wicked hammer than he had ever swung in a shop. And people were treating him as a high lord, the last heir to the Demon of the Trident, who had brought down the Targaryen Dynasty with one last swing of his hammer. However, part of him still felt like the scorned bastard of no one who’d grown up in Tobho Mott’s shop. _I’m a fighter, not a soldier._

However, he didn’t seem all that out of place. He wasn’t a great general by any means, but all he had to do was go with his men beside the Dragon Army and hold his position. It was hardly more than had been asked of him when he’d left the forges of Winterfell to take his place on the walls to fight off the Others.

Luckily, he was not alone. Arstan Selmy and Marran Dondarrion were by his side, ensuring that their formation was well-anchored to the Dragon Army bowmen. The Evenstar had gone to the other flank to oversee operations there, joined by his daughter and Ser Jaime, although how the other Stormlanders would take the Lannister knight’s presence was anyone’s guess.

Then there was _her, _standing right beside him the entire time. She had her newly redesigned staff, sharpened steel at both ends, out and idly twirling it in circles. Needle and the Catspaw were at her her hip, and she stared into the darkness and the smoke of the flaming arrows, waiting for the enemy. It was strange how she had insisted on wearing a surcoat with Baratheon yellow and his sigil, but she showed no hesitation. “This is my family, as much as the one I was born in,” she had said.

Gendry took a deep breath. Many of the lords had given her more than a few suspicious or dubious looks as she joined them on the battlefield, but none had dared question her or him about it. To him, it would have been odd for her _not _to fight beside him. _We look out for each other, like we always did._

#

**Arya**

She was surprised that she was so nervous.

She had fought and killed before. She’d even been in battle before, but… this was different.

Even through the smoke and the darkness, she could see there was a mass of humanity in iron plate and chain, glowing green from the fires of Harrenhal, rolling their way. Most facing them on their end of the line were flying Stormlander banners, including House Trant’s hanged man sigil, but to their left, there was such a bizarre collection of flowing silk and armor outfits and every sort of weapon from cutlasses, twenty-foot pikes, and flails that she surmised they were Essoi sellsword companies.

Before, when she killed those on her list, it was easy. They had wronged her, wronged her family. It was justice. When she fought the Others, it made sense because she knew that they weren’t alive – it was almost like she was freeing their souls when she stabbed them with dragonglass.

But this was different. These were men… and not all evil men, either.

Her mind flashed back to when she first came back to Westeros – _almost a year, now. Gods, it seems less time than that – _and was on the road to King’s Landing to kill Cersei, before she’d learned her family was alive. There had been one night that she’d come across a squadron of Lannister bannermen on the road to the Riverlands, and they had invited her to eat with them and make camp for the night. She’d been suspicious, wondering if they were looking for an easy target for looting or worse. But they were sincere and generous with their food and company, seeing in her perhaps some reflection of their sisters, cousins, or daughters. Their talk was not of pillage or plunder, but good food and loved ones left behind. _These could be good men, _she realized that night as she slept beside them without incident.

There had been a growing realization in her, over the past few days, that she was going to be facing a large host of soldiers. Not all of them would be Ser Mervyn Trants, or Ser Gregor Cleganes. Many of them, maybe even most of them that she was going to face, were like those men around the Lannister campfire that night. And that knowledge, that she was going to have to bring an end to such men, filled her with more dread than she ever felt thinking of the fates of House Frey. For the first time in recent memory, she was loathing the idea of killing someone.

_Too many people are going to die. _She thought of not only the men in front of her, but the men, women, and children behind her that she’d left behind huddled in the castle, and she hoped that they had made their escape. _All this death, the destruction… I’m sick of it. And the only way it’s going to end is if we win, if we _beat _them so badly here that they don’t want to fight anymore. I don’t want to murder those people around the campfire… but if I must kill a few of them so most of them get home rather than none of them, then maybe I can live with it._

As she saw the other Stormlanders starting their charge in a mad dash trying to keep up with what she assumed was the Golden Company cavalry attacking the Dragon Army, she stepped away from the line to face the men she and Gendry were supposed to be in a high, piercing tone that managed to carry over the entire line, “You see those men behind me?” She pointed her staff in that direction. “They want to kill you and take everything that you’ve got! Most of them are sellswords and that’s how they live. And I’m fucking sick of it!” She stabbed the staff into the ground, pointing her finger at the men up and down the line. “We’re here to put and end to it, an end to the fighting!”

She saw Gendry remove his helmet and stare at her. _Oh, Gods, did he want to talk? _But then, her husband broke out into a wide grin, leaning on his war hammer. “Bold words and true words,” she heard him say. “Tell them what we are fighting for today, My Lady.”

Arya gifted him a sneer and a brief eye roll before going ahead. _Stupid Bull. _“We’re fighting so you can get back to your homes, your families, your loved ones,” she shouted, “so you can get back to living in peace. You want to go home?” She yanked her staff out of the ground and pointed it at their foes. “You beat them to do it!”

“Get ready to fight, lads,” Gendry yelled out as he put his helmet back on and hefted his warhammer in his hands as a cheer rose up among the Stormlanders of the High Kingdom.

Arya turned back to her men, to Gendry’s men. “OURS IS THE FURY!” she howled, pumping her staff high above her head, calling out the words of her new house.

“OURS IS THE FURY!” Gendry and the rest of the men roared back as they braced for the enemy to finally make it to them.

She returned to the line, returned to Gendry’s side. _I’m not letting anyone skewer _you. _You didn’t survive the dead to get taken down here. _Off to the right, she began to hear the shrieks of horses and she realized that the enemy cavalry had made it to the stakes. _Poor bastard horses,_ she thought. _I’m just as uneasy seeing them fall as the men._

As the enemy got within twenty yards of their position, he focused on one Stormlander that was coming right towards her or near enough, some bannerman wearing House Buckler colors waving a short sword and shield in a steel helmet with nosepiece and a chain mail shirt. _Thank the gods he looks older than me, maybe Jon’s age. I hope he isn’t like the Lannister bard… but he might have to be the first man I kill today. _She started planning how she was going to slip his guard and strike him in the neck.

#

**Daeron Vaith**

It was right as the Dornish host of the Army of the Seven Kingdoms peeked out from the woods to the southeast when he saw the banners.

He could recognize what appeared to be the Unsullied’s defensive line anchored on the shore, ready to receive the Golden Company. On their left were several Marcher Lords and others from the Stormlands, surrounding a group of unfamiliar black and yellow banners. But then, through his Myrish eye, he saw another sizable host forming up on the Stormlander infantry, with the all too familiar spear and sun sigil in their center. He gazed at their position as he threw up his right arm to halt them.

Ser Roston Sand, his second in command, a fair-haired, hazel-eyed man of five and twenty in full plate armor, had his lance out and at the ready as he rode up to him. “My Lord, should we not advance?”

He grunted but said nothing for a long moment as he scanned the other Dornish line. _The naivety of youth. _“We’re going back south,” he said.

“South where? To regroup…?”

“Seven hells, no,” he scoffed. “We’re headed back to Dorne and forget that we ever entertained this madness. If they don’t see us here, we just _might_ be forgotten.”

“But the queen…”

“She’s one woman and some sycophants, not a proper ruler,” Daeron said. “We were going to catch them by surprise – _look,” _he exclaimed. “Those are _not _a pack of panicked refugees, they are waiting for us, and so far, there’s more of them than there are of us.”

“But, going back to Dorne…”

“…will be the least dangerous option in front of us,” Daeron said. “At worst we miss out on the spoils of this battle and the Lion Queen won’t have enough troops around to punish us. At best, we let them weaken themselves while we preserve our strength. Our ancestors weren’t dumb enough to try and fight dragons in the open, and I’m not feeling confident enough that they’re not out there to risk it. We go home.”

With a deep sigh, Ser Roston nodded. “South it is, My Lord.”

“Hope the Dragon Witch cuts herself on the fucking iron chair if the Lion Bitch doesn’t do it first,” Daeron huffed, turning his mount around. “We worry about Dorne, not the rest of it.”

# 

**Elia Martell**

She was feeling slightly exposed out in the open fields.

Elia and her betrothed had posted themselves on the left flank of the Dornishmen as they started to stretch to the left, trying to find either some woods or other natural formation to anchor themselves. They knew Lord Yronwood and the men of Houses Wyl and Uller were holding the right flank up easily against the Stormlander contingent, while Houses Fowler and Dayne joined House Nymerios Martell on the left.

Normally, if the Dornish couldn’t find other troops, they would have anchored themselves onto the castle walls as a place of safety, but the green glowing fire that now danced across the tops of Harrenhal’s entire curtain wall precluded that idea.

“I’d appreciate seeing the Riverlanders at any point now,” Edric growled as he tried to make out any formations of troops to the west.

“They’re further out there, surely,” Elia said. “Hopefully the Reach troops finish their work and reinforce our flank… we’re not going to reach the Riverlanders, though.” She turned fearful eyes to Harrenhal. “I hope to the Gods Sarella got out somewhere.”

“She’ll be all right, Beloved,” Edric said, unlimbering his shield with the falling star sigil and the ancestral sword, Dawn, once wielded by his uncle. “She’s not a natural fighter like you, but she can take care of herself. More likely she got out with the other non-fighters along with the Reach men.”

“She’d better. Having me or Obella become the new Princess of Dorne would be too ridiculous.”

She examined the center and right of their lines, packed with Dornish infantrymen with rounded shields, double-curved bows and javelins for when the enemy got within distance and heavier spears strapped to their backs for when the close fighting happened. The armored dismounted knights, with their swords, axes, and hammers, backed them up from the rear. Elia saw waves of Essoi sellswords, led by the Desperate Men of the Red Waste and the Wild Jackals, attempt but fail to come within melee distance of their lines.

“We should be thankful that we’re not facing any Dornish,” Elia said. “I thought Lord Daeron had thrown in with the Lion Queen.”

“I haven’t seen any Dornish fighters anywhere but here… Seven Hells,” Edric said.

“What is it…?” Elia asked her betrothed, but then the words died on her lips.

A large mass of steel, red, and gold bore down on them from the west.

#

**Lyle Crakehall**

He rode beside the pride of the Westerlands, thousands strong of heavy infantry and dismounted knights, bearing down on the exposed left flank of the Dornish backstabbers, a massive door swinging toward them from the farthest left end of the Army of the Seven Kingdoms.

The core Lannister bannermen were the only ones not noticeably present in their formation. Houses Marband, Sarwy, Farman, Westerling, and Lefford were alongside most of his own house. They were armed for heavy combat, halberds and poleaxes ready to cut down the lightly armored Dornish, and scorpions in the rear on the lookout for any dragons in the skies when not sending the occasional wildfire-loaded ballistas into the castle. _We’ll grind them into mush and roll up whatever remains standing._

Suddenly, a rumbling of horses’ hooves and clanking armor and arms behind him turned his head. He saw a mass of friendly cavalry, both Essoi sellswords led personally by Rozaz Hizir and what appeared to be all the Westerosi cavalry, perhaps six thousand men in all, galloping… away from his men. Rather than sweeping in around the Westerlanders’ right flank to assist with rolling up the Dornish, they were riding right past their positions and heading out further west. _What are they up to? _a frustrated Lyle wondered.

He suddenly saw his father among the Westerosi cavalry peel away from them and gallop to a stop in front of him. “Father, where are you going? We’ve got the chance to roll up the Dragon Bitch’s lines and end this now!”

Lord Roland laughed and shook his head, pointing further west. “There’s a massive gap in their lines out there – they weren’t able to form up before we got here,” he said. “A whole mass of them are making a run for it to the northwest. Now’s our chance to wipe them out before they get away and end this.”

“What about the flank?” Lyle said, pointing to the Westerlanders beginning their swinging march against the Dornish far left.

“I’ve got faith that you’ve got more than enough men to get the job done,” Roland said, smacking him on the shoulder. “You go on your business, and have a good romp. I’ll do the same.” With that, he turned around with a pull of the reins and a quick jab of his gold stirrups to catch up with the other riders.

_Fuck’s sake, _Lyle thought. _We’ve go the chance to win it right here, and we’re chasing after loot._ Shaking his head, he spurred his horse to rejoin his men.

#

**Elia**

“Ideas?” she asked her betrothed as they saw the Westerlanders swinging toward them.

Edric fixed his violet gaze on the movement, then nodded. “Captains, we need to bend back!” He turned to the nearest knight on the far left flank. “We’re going to have to move back and refuse the line – bend at an angle,” he said, making a rough approximation of the shape with his hand. “They’re going to overlap up otherwise. It’s the only way we’ll be able to make a stand! Do we have any of the supply wagons with us?”

“In the back, My Lord,” Ser Walder Sand replied.

“We need to move back on the double. The other lines need to follow us. When we stop, get those wagons and overturn them in front of our lines. We might be able to slow them down.”

“Yes, My Lord,” the knight said, saluting and then dashing down the line to relay the orders.

“Is there any chance this works?” Elia said as she unlimbered her lance for fighting.

“It’ll work for a while, but I’m not sure if it will work for long,” Edric said. “We’ll likely need help soon. Until then, though – MEN! With me! Fall back to defense. Fall back!”

“Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken!” Elia called out to the men lance waving high in the air as Edric did the same with Dawn. “Now is your chance to put truth to those words. Prepare to defend yourselves!”  
  


#

**Euron**

Blood was flowing inside and outside of bodies. It was perfect for Euron.

Unlike the cattle in armor plate they called Westerosi knights, The King of Rock and Salt preferred heavy black leather armor for its ease of movement. Just as men in metal were raising their swords, Euron was already there slicing a leg or neck with one of the two battle axes he wielded in each hand. He’d already taken two knights out in a single minute as the fighting began.

He glanced behind him for a moment. A little less than one-half of his Ironborn marines had made it through the opening of the southern wall to attack those within. He could see the longships still full with men trying to make their way to shore as those that had already disembarked their marines attempted to get out of the way. _For an Ironborn battle, the organization of the men… isn’t bad._

He now turned his attention to the fight at hand. It was… getting interesting. And, it was getting complicated.

He’d expected the castle to be in flames and everyone inside running like mad men trying to put out the fires on their bodies. Of course, the castle was burning, and much of the place looked like a total loss, but they were not facing panicked bannermen and smallfolk.

Euron realized that this had been the first time he’d even been to Harrenhal in person. He’d traveled to the known seas of Westeros and Essos, beyond into the seas around Sothoryos and Ulthos and other waters no Westerosi except the Ironborn knew of their existence. But he was here and he had one realization. _This place is not big. It’s colossal._

The place surely make Pyke and even Winterfell look like a pile of rocks. The courtyard where the fight was taking place could have fit twice as many men that were battling that day. There was plenty enough space for men to avoid the flaming dripping oozing green liquid and make their stand against the invaders.

As he cut down what appeared to be a bannerman from House Manderly, he saw that his men were having a tougher time of it. The defenders had apparently anticipated that they were going to come through the gap in the south wall and had thrown up a barricade that looked little more than a pile of broken timbers and rubble. But, it was a barricade that well-loomed twice the height of a man over the Ironborn once they got into the courtyard, so his boys were fighting uphill when they expected to be chasing after scared men.

They might have been unnerved, but were far from terrified. Most of them seemed like Northerners, although there were a handful of Westerosi knights that from the seven-point star many wore on their clothes or armor, must have been the Holy Hundred he’d heard vague reports about but had never been interested in the exploits of armored Faith Militants in all but name. They might have prayed like septons, but even Euron admitted they were holding their ground like the toughest of Ironborn.

As Euron made it to the top of the battlements, one of them lunged at him, a man in full armor protecting plenty of bulk, with the seven-pointed star on his surcoat over his breastplate. “Time to bid you farewell, good man,” the man chuckled underneath his helmet.

His sword-wielding technique was practiced and tried. Three thrusts from the ser kept Euron scrambling out of reach. But for all his skill, the man had none of the Ironborn’s speed and ruthlessness. As the knight made a hard lunge again, he swatted the sword away to his left with a back-handed motion of one battle-axe and sent the man’s helmet flying off his head.

The bald-headed and blue-eyed man slumped to one knee as he shook his head to clear it. “What’s a grandfather like you doing on the battlefield, Ser?” Euron cackled.

“I am Ser Anders Eddarton,” the knight chuckled as he got to his feet. “And the Warrior has given me plenty enough fight for tonight.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Ser Anders,” Euron replied, twirling both axes in circles with each hand at his side. “I am Euron Greyjoy, the King of Rock and Salt. It is good that you know the name of the man who is to kill you.”

“Ambitious man,” the landborn knight said as he got to his feet. “We’ll see who kills who in a minute.”

Twirling his sword in his right wrist, the knight feinted to the right, then made a backswinging, slashing stroke that caught Euron on the side but didn’t quite make it all the way through his leather armor. Rather than chance another spin, Anders turned to face him and thrust toward his chest. Twisting himself, the King of Rock and Salt barely evaded the blade penetrating his rib cage. Before he could move further, Anders pulled the sword back for another thrust that carved a shallow trench across the right side of his neck…

…only to have Euron pull the blade away from making a deeper cut by trapping it with the axe in his right hand. With the left single-bladed axe, he struck the man’s head with the blunt side on his first blow, twirled it around in his hand, then buried it blade-first into the base of the man’s neck. With a clash and clatter of steel, the man fell to the ground.

_Finally, a proper fight, _he thought, but he still wanted more. He was feeling like he’d made the Last Cast. “Come ON!” he howled, both axes branded. “How many people do I have to kill to get a proper fight?”

The northerners and Holy Knights or whatever the fuck they called themselves brandished their weapons at him, but none made the first move. For a moment, he thought they were intimidated by him… until he saw the level of green light shining in their faces suddenly grow almost as intense as a wildfire sunset.

Euron lept down away from the top of the battlements, away from the Northern fighters and the Pious Poorboys so that he could see what was going on. What he saw was a blazing wildfire sunset, all right. But it wasn’t on top of the walls of Harrenhal. It was on the northernmost waters of the Lake of the God’s Eye.

#

**Theon**

“Loose,” was all that he had to say.

In the next second, the _whoosh whoosh whoosh _of arrows flying from the decks of his longboat and others filled the air, a few seconds after his uncle’s ships in front of Harrenhal came within arrow shot range. Usually, flaming arrows would be useful for igniting boat timbers and sails, but there was a far better target than that in their holds, even with all the missiles that they had sent against Harrenhal.

One thing that Theon Greyjoy also knew about was attacking over the water at night. It was something that Yara had given him some wisdom about. Most thought that the key to not being seen at night was the lack of light, but Yara had also told him that bright lights could keep a person or ship lit, but they could be so bright as to blind them from what waited in the darkness beyond. And Euron’s ships were facing one of the brightest lights he’d ever seen at night.

For a moment, as the fiery rain began to fall on his uncle’s ships, he was afraid that all that was going to burn on them were their wood and sails. _I don’t know if we can stop them in time…_

Suddenly, a _WHOOMP _thundered from the left side of the formation as a massive green light began blossoming from one of the boats. The green light of the wildfire began growing over the formation until it covered nearly half of the Ironborn boats in front of Harrenhal.

Theon pumped his fist in triumph as another hail of fire arrows set what appeared to be half the remaining boats in Euron’s fleet alight with green and red flames. However, he saw one of the boats to the right creep around to port to face his boats broadside. Suddenly, he saw four flashes of light leap from it – scorpion bolts headed straight for his boat.

Two of them missed entirely, but the other two crashed into the bow of his vessel with green flashes. The flames immediately started spreading across the bow.

“Your orders, Captain?” Roark shouted from beside him.

As Theon grabbed the helm of the boat, he made note of the light but steady wind and its existing momentum. “Tie off all of the lines and abandon ship,” he ordered.

“Admiral, what about you…?”

“Did you _not _hear me? Tie off the lines and abandon ship!” Theon roared. “I’m staying to shove this ship up my uncle’s ass. Now _go!”_

As the ship moved forward into the green glow, he heard the splashes of his men diving into the water. The _Sansa _got ever closer to the remaining lead Ironborn ship that had set his ablaze. Realizing Theon’s intentions, it began launching bolts at him in a desperate bid to stop him in his tracks. Another two bolts spread the fire closer to the middle of the _Sansa, _but it wouldn’t be enough to halt the boat’s momentum. _Too late for you, friends._

He looked around at his ship. _It was a good boat. Shame it didn’t have a longer life. _He hoped its namesake was having better luck on land. _Sansa, Jon… Robb… I stood up. I fought as an Ironborn… and a Stark. Winter comes for you, Uncle._

There was a massive _CRACK_ as the ram on his boat’s bow broke through the hull of the enemy boat. In moments, shattered wildfire barrels spilled their contents over their decks and were immediately ignited by the _Sansa’s_ flames.

Theon was smiling, arms spread wide in triumph, as the force of the blast blew him off the stern deck.

#

**Euron**

Most war leaders would have had a bit of trepidation if they saw at least half of their fighting force incinerated within a few moments. All Euron thought was _guess that means more loot for me._

For Euron, victory or death were the only possible outcomes of a fight. Defeat never entered his mind, because he knew he wouldn’t let himself stick around to get beat.

He raised his battle axes high, howling, “Come on, lads, back at it! Up, up the pile! Time for these sheep to pay the Iron Price!”

As his men began surging back up the barricades after the Northern fighters, he felt a sharp jab in the muscle between his neck and left shoulder. Sheathing one axe for a moment, he reached back and yanked an arrow from it.

He looked up to see a tall Dornishman dressed in brown leather, golds and oranges, nocking another arrow in his bow, but… “We’ll see who pays tonight,” he… she said in a voice too high-pitched for a man, but smiled as she loosed another arrow.

Euron easily dodged that arrow as he began to clamber up the barricade, both axes now in hand. The Dornishwoman was a bit nervous as she tried to notch another arrow. Her only companion was a grizzled man wearing the black of the Night Watch, but he was trying to fend off two of his Ironborn raiders. _Always liked Dornish cunts…_

A furry blur flew into him from above and sent them both clattering to the ground in a heap. Euron took two barrel rolls before coming to a stop and jumping to his feet, axes extended. “What the fuck…?”

The man covered in furs loomed over him by at least a couple heads, brandishing a huge two-headed, two-handed battle axe. He had red hair and a full beard, but he looked young, young as the Snow brat, he thought. “You talk a _lot,”_ the whelp growled. “Time to shut you up so we can have a peaceful fight here.” He twirled his axe.

“The King of Rock and Salt doesn’t follow commands, he _gives _them,” Euron howled. “Meet your killer, wildling cunt.”

He was a blur as he slashed left and right, trying to carve the huge wilding bastard down to size. Despite the wilding’s height, though, he had as much quickness and agility as Euron, and parried one slash after the other with the blade or shaft of his own axe.

_No way this wildling can beat me. _He feinted right then left, then snuck his right axe in enough to carve a narrow slash in the man’s left side, causing him to wince for a moment. Euron decided to try the maneuver again, but despite his injury, this time the wildling blocked the blow and smashed the butt of his axe shaft into Euron’s face, kicking him in the chest for good measure.

Scrambling to his feet, Euron swung at him again, this time feinting left then right, then swinging his axe as fast as he could at the man’s right. He managed to hit the wildling’s right shoulder, but he parried the blow enough with his axe shaft that the wound was shallow.

Suddenly, Euron found himself hoisted into the air. The wildling had used his axe to hook Euron’s battle axes and lift Euron off the ground with no visible effort. “This was fun,” the wildling grunted, “but now it’s getting painful and tiresome. Pain’s all right if you’re having fun.”

With a roar, the wildling threw him sprawling into the air and clattered him to the ground, Using the axe in his right hand, Euron began to push himself up, left arm raised, when the wildling’s axe whistled through the air parallel to the ground with blinding speed and sent Euron’s left hand and the axe it held flying off to the side.

Screaming, Euron collapsed onto the ground, dropping his remaining axe and grabbing his left wrist with his remaining hand. As he felt the blood leaving his limb, he felt the wilding shoving his chin up with his battle axe so that their eyes could meet.

“I am Toregg the Tall, son of Tormund Giantsbane, the King of the Lands of Always Winter,” the wilding roared. “It is good a man knows who slays him.”

The wildling slung his axe behind his back and sent it whistling toward him. Euron saw the flash of the steel, and then all went black.

#

**Samwell**

He was only more nervous outside the castle rather than inside. “Come on, everyone, we’ve got to keep moving.”

The men of the Reach had made it out of the western gate of Harrenhal, the only one still open, and were now marching in formation northwest away from the battle, surrounding the smallfolk and other noncombatants. Among the noncombatants his group were protecting were his family, Queen Sansa, Missandei, Lady Roslin Tully and Hoster, Marya and Steffon Seaworth, Lord Tyrion, and Serenei. He also though he recognized the head stonemason of the castle, leading what appeared to be his family, as well.

“How much farther do you think, Sam?” Gilly asked him.

“At least a mile or two,” Samwell said. “We’re already clear of the battle lines, but I don’t want some marauders catching us unaware.”

“I hate to say it, my lord,” Tyrion said, staring off eastward, “But I believe that is exactly what we’re about to face now.”

Samwell turned to look where Tyrion was looking. There was a line of Essoi sellsword cavalry, their bright silks and chain and scale armor reflecting the wildfire from Harrenhal. Arakhs, scimitars, and lances brandished, the horsemen started their charge against the men of the Reach and the smallfolk.

He stared at the flashing steel for a moment before he recovered himself. “FORM SQUARE!” he roared in his best imitation of a Watch trainer. “FORM SQUARE!”

As the cavalry came closer, the parallel lines of Reach soldiers hurried to form themselves into a row of enclosed squares, with the smallfolk and noncombatants inside. The men brandished their spears outward, giving the formations a look not unlike a line of porcupines.

Just as the squares finished closing, the horsemen began crashing into the formations, or flowing around them to find an open point of attack. The spears, braced down on the ground to keep them sturdy against the charges, skewered horses and sent their riders flying into the middle of the squares where they were cut to pieces. However, more than a few of the Reach men started to fall as well, especially to those with the lances.

After a tense minute, the Essoi cavalry began to ride off to the east, away from the squares. Some of the moaning wounded were dragged into the center of the squares, and Samwell saw Serenei, Mayra Seaworth, his own sister and mother, and the stonemason’s wife starting to tend to them.

“We have to get moving,” Samwell said. “We can’t stay in the open, they can still get us out here.”

Sansa walked over to one of the open gaps in the lines, picking up a spear from a fallen Hightower bannerman as she stared out at the fields to the east. “I don’t think the enemy is going to allow that, my lord.”

”Are you mad, woman?” said the Hound, who had been by her side the entire evening. He grabbed the spear she was holding. “Your bastard husband would have my head...”

”Then you’d better watch my back, shouldn’t you?” Sansa said as she glared at him.

After a moment, he let go of her spear and followed her to the line, sword already drawn. “Fuck’s sake,” he grumbled.

Samwell went to them and where Sansa was looking. The Essoi cavalry were reforming in a heavier line, now joined to the left by a mass of heavy Westerlander and Stormlander mounted knights, fully equipped with plate armor and lances. Four ranks deep, he could almost feel their eyes boring into him as they prepared to charge.

“Men, prepare to defend yourselves,” Sam called out in a steady voice, drawing Heartsbane and taking his place in the line.

“And the women, too,” he heard Gilly say, as she shooed Young Sam into the center and took her place in the line with a spear, joining her husband, Queen Sansa, the Hound, and an uncertain Marton Stoneman.

#

**Meera**

She crouched down next to her lover in the Harrenhal godswood, alongside a half-dozen crannogmen assigned to their personal protection.

The crannogwoman imagined that things could be worse for them. The exit into the larger castle from the godswood was closed with rubble, but there was no wildfire on the walls surrounding it and only a handful of flaming arrows had even fallen inside, doing negligible damage. For now, they appeared safe.

Bran’s eyes had been white for a long time now, and she could see two trickles of blood coming out of each of his nostrils as a slight tremor affected his hands. _It’s been too long,_ she thought. _I know he wants to help, but… he has to come back._

Not paying attention to the strange looks that she got from her father’s men, she crawled onto Bran’s lap as he leaned back onto his chair. “Fucking hells, Brandon, get back here,” she said, holding the back of his head. After she wiped the blood from his face, she kissed him. “Are you there?”

His eyes flashed grey once again as he gave her a shy smile. “I heard you the first time, but… I liked your way of bringing me back to be honest.”

That earned him a smack on the back of his head from Meera. _Stupid boy. _“Never mind your appetites, Brandon Stark, does your brother know how bad it’s getting?”

“He does now,” Bran said with a small nod. “The dragons are coming.”

#

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, hope that was worth the wait! Don't worry, we have one more chapter of the Battle of Harrenhal (I think) and there's a lot of action left to see. Hope you enjoy all of it.
> 
> Please leave comments and let me know what you think - I'll be happy to respond back. Also, let your friends know that you liked this - I'm appreciating the attention this is getting.
> 
> Writers keep writing and everyone keep safe.


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